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V*P\ 


A Difficult Matter 


BY 


MRS. EMILY LOVETT CAMERON 

M 

AUTHOR OF 


*‘A Fair Fraud,” “In a Grass Country,” “Worth Winning,” 
“The Craze of Christina,” etc. 



NEW YORK 

STREET & SMITH, Publishers 

238 William Street 




r. 




IX 


'O 


45097 

Copyright, 1899, in the United States of America 

By STREET & SMITH 

Copyright in Great Britain 

TWO 


wJ COIN'D OOHY, 






0 

• ff 


C O N E N T S 


CilAl’TER 


jy 


I. 

II. 

III. 

IV. 
V. 

VI. 

VII. 

VIII. 


yy 

yy 

yy 

yy 

yy 

yy 

yy 

yy 

yy 

y y 


) y 


IX. 

X. 

XL 

XII. 

XIII. 

XIV. 
XV. 

XVI. 

XVII. 

xviir. 


PAGE 

9 


21 


32 

41 

51 

62 

71 

82 

94 

104 

116 

127 

139 

149 

159 

169 

179 

187 

197 


XIX. 


PAGE 


i 

viii \ CpNTENTS, 

CHAPTER XX 206 

,, XXI 215 

„ XXII 224 

„ XXIII 232 

)) ••••••• 240 

)} XXV. • • • • ' . . • ^49 

,, XXVI 257 

„ XXVII 265 

„ XXVIII. 273 ‘ 

,, XXIX 282 

„ XXX. 

„ XXXI. 

„ XXXII. 


291 

299 

307 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


CHAPTER I 

Sir Francis Deverell, of Deverell Place, in the 
County of Southshire, sat motionless at his breakfast- 
table, with his tea getting stone cold at his elbow, 
and his bacon and eggs untasted on the plate before 
him. 

His eyes were fixed upon an open letter which was 
propped up against the teapot in front him, and so 
long and so intently were they fixed upon it, that it 
almost seemed as though he was never going to move 
them again. 

Sir Francis was a small made, very dapper little 
old gentleman, of between sixty and seventy ; he had 
a neat grey head, close-cropped grey whiskers, and 
clean-cut features. He was dressed with a scrupulous 
exactitude that almost amounted to smartness, and 
his figure, which was a well-proportioned one upon 
a diminutive scale, was as erect and upright as that 
of a boy of twenty. 

Hunt, who, on a larger scale, had fashioned his 
outer man as. far as possible in imitation of his 
master’s, stood immovably behind his chair. 

A 9 


lO 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


Hunt was the very essence of propriety and re- 
spectability, but having been in service at Deverell 
Place from his boyhood upwards, he was of opinion 
that there are certain respectful familiarities which a 
man in his position may in cases of emergency be 
allowed to indulge in. 

If there is one thing above all others that the soul 
of a conscientious butler may rightly be considered to 
abhor, it is the spoiling of good food set upon the 
table. 

Hunt watched the gradual cooling of the bacon 
and the tea to which he had carefully helped his 
master with growing distress and uneasiness. At 
length he could bear it no longer. He stole round 
the table and ventured to break in upon his medi- 
tations by handing him the hot buttered toast ; but 
Sir Francis merely shook his head, and motioned the 
dish away with his hand. 

Hunt eyed the letter which was producing in him 
such an unprecedented oblivion of the ordinary duties 
of life with indignation ; Sir Francis’s correspondence 
was not wont to be of such an absorbing character. 

Flunt, who was the soul of discretion, did not allow 
his glance to rest curiously upon the handwriting, 
which was unformed and straggling, but he could not 
avoid perceiving that there was a very broad black 
edge to the paper. 

Then he coughed gently behind his hand. 

Sir Francis started, and Hunt seized his oppor- 
tunity. 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


II 


* If I might be allowed to say so, Sir Francis, your 
breakfast is growing cold/ 

The old gentleman drew a very long breath and 
then took a gulp of his lukewarm tea. 

* I trust there is no bad news. Sir Francis ? ’ in- 
quired Hunt, deferentially. 

Sir Francis turned round in his arm-chair, and 
looked at his butler with a face of consternation. 

‘There is very bad news indeed, Hunt,’ he said 
solemnly. 

‘ I am truly sorry, sir, to hear it,’ murmured Hunt, 
with concern. 

‘ Mrs Walter Deverell is dead.* 

‘ That is very sad.’ 

‘ It is not in the least sad, Hunt,’ replied his master 
sharply, ‘ it is a very good thing. That is not the 
worst of the business by any means.’ 

Hunt, who knew that the name of his younger 
son’s widow had not passed Sir Francis’s lips for 
twelve years, awaited in respectful, but not in un- 
interested silence, for what was to come next. 

‘You have not, I daresay, forgotten,’ resumed his 
master after a short pause, ‘ how my poor, misguided 
son was lured away to his destruction by a play 
actress — a common play actress,’ he repeated, dwelling 
with bitter emphasis of contempt and hatred upon 
the words, ‘ for whose sake he forfeited for ever his 
position as my son.’ Hunt knew all about it quite 
as well as Sir Francis did. Walter Deverell had 
been the family black sheep, and since the crowning 


12 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


iniquity of his marriage, his name and existence had 
been outwardly expunged from the records of the 
family history. When the news of his death had 
come twelve years ago to Deverell Place, Sir Francis 
had for some hours shut himself up in his own 
room. Whether he had sorrowed, or whether his 
pride and resentment had sustained him under the 
loss, was known only to himself. He gave no sign 
of feeling to the world ; he was only a little harder, 
a little colder, a little greyer and older too, than 
before the news came — that was all. No one ever 
saw a tear in his eye, or was able to guess that he 
had sorrowed in any way for his once best loved 
younger son. And he had handed a letter that same 
day to Hunt 

‘You will take that letter into Allhampton your- 
self, Hunt, and post it for me by six o’clock,’ he had 
said to him. 

And Hunt had seen that the letter was addressed 
to Mrs Walter Deverell. 

From that day to this Hunt had never heard of 
her. Now he mutely bowed his head in answer to his 
master’s preamble, wondering what was to come next. 

‘What you perhaps never heard of. Hunt, is that 
my poor boy left a child, as well as a widow.’ 

‘ Indeed, sir?’ This was certainly news to Hunt. 

Sir Francis tapped the letter before him with his 
forefinger. 

‘This letter is from her. Hunt!* 

‘From her^ Sir Francis?’ 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


13 


* From the child, I mean, from my grand-daughter, 
Hermione Deverell. Did you ever hear of that name 
in the family before, Hunt ? ’ 

‘It sounds outlandish-like, Sir Francis, certainly,’ 
admitted Hunt. 

‘ It’s unchristian and heathenish, I consider,’ cried 
the old man, irritably ; ‘ but what else could be ex- 
pected from a play actress ! However, that is a 
small matter. Miss Hermione Deverell,’ referring 
again to the black- bordered letter in his hand, which 
was all scrawled over with a large, straggling hand- 
writing, and blotted and blurred in places as though 
with tears, ‘ Miss Hermione Deverell writes to tell me 
that Mrs Walter Deverell is dead and was buried 
yesterday, that she has managed to pay for the 
funeral, but that she is now penniless ; and that by 
the dying desire of her mother, backed up by the 
advice of her friends, whoever they may be, she is 
coming to place herself under my protection. She 
leaves Durham, where they appear to have been 
living, this morning, reaches St Pancras at 4.30, 
drives across London to catch the 5.45 train at 
Waterloo, and will be at Allhampton at 7.49 this 
evening.’ 

‘ To-day^ Sir Francis? This is very sudden ! * 

‘ It is very sudden indeed,’ said the old man, and 
then he pushed his chair away from the table and 
went and stood by the window, with his back to the 
room, looking out at the level lawns and the gardens, 
and the noble double avenue of lime trees that was 


14 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


the glory of Deverell Place, and at the gentle slopes 
of the park beyond, stealing upwards towards the 
bare, bleak circle of downs that surrounded the green 
oasis of the property on every side. Perhaps, as 
he stood there, he saw nothing but the familiar 
scene that he had looked at so many thousands of 
times ; the green meadow lands, the yellowing 
autumn woods, the cattle in the meadows, the 
antlered deer amongst the shadowy glades, the 
sheep that dotted the hillsides far away — things 
which his eyes had rested upon daily, all his life, 
with a certain sense of pride in his possessions, 
mingled with a conviction of high responsibility — or 
perhaps for once those faded old eyes saw none of 
these at all, but only through a mist of their own 
tears, a bright eager face, glowing with youth and 
hope and happiness — a face that for twelve long years 
had lain mouldering in a distant and untended grave. 

His voice was less steady than usual as he said to 
his old butler, — 

‘ I cannot refuse a home to my poor boy’s orphan 
child. Hunt?’ 

‘ No, Sir Francis, certainly not,’ replied the old 
servant, with some show of feeling. 

‘ You must send the brougham to meet the 7.49 
train at Allhampton to night, with the cart for the 
luggage.’ 

‘Yes, Sir Francis.’ 

‘ The question is where are we to put Miss Deverell 
when she comes ? ’ 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


IS 

Already the little unknown grand-daughter with 
the Shakespearian name had arisen to the important 
position of ‘ Miss Deverell ’ in her grandfather’s 
mind — there was no other Miss Deverell in the 
family — his eldest son’s children were all boys. 

The question seemed a ridiculous one, seeing that 
Deverell Place was a large and roomy mansion, and 
that the baronet, whose wife had died soon after 
Walter’s birth, lived entirely alone by himself in the 
great empty house of his forefathers. 

‘ Had I not better send for Mrs March?’ suggested 
Hunt, to whom the subject presented no less difficulty 
than to his master. 

Mrs March was accordingly summoned, and Hunt 
briefly broke the astonishing news to her outside 
the door. 

‘ Suitable rooms must be prepared for Miss Deverell’s 
reception this evening,’ said the baronet, with an in- 
flection of importance in his voice. 

‘Yes, Sir Francis. The west corridor would, I 
think, be the best. There are three very nice 
rooms — a bedroom, a dressing-room and a morning- 
room. They used to be the old schoolrooms, sir. I 
daresay you remember ? ’ 

Sir Francis had not been into the old schoolrooms 
for many years, but when Mrs March proceeded to 
explain that she could make them very comfortable and 
habitable by the evening, he agreed to the proposition. 

‘ Miss Deverell must have a maid, too.’ 

‘Will she not bring her own maid. Sir Francis?* 


i6 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


‘ Well, no. I hardly think so. If she did I should 
not keep her. I should prefer a fresh lady’s-maid to 
be found for her here.* 

‘Certainly, Sir Francis — there’s my own niece as 
was lady’s-maid to the Ladies Conybeare, who is 
now out of place and seeking a new situation — I 
could no doubt get her here by the day after to- 
morrow, and meanwhile I can wait upon Miss 
Deverell myself.* 

‘ That will do perfectly, March, and — and if there 
should be any deficiency in Miss Deverell’s ward- 
robe — I believe she has been travelling about — it 
might require renovating.’ It was curious to note 
how nervously the autocratic little old man made the 
suggestion. But Mrs March, although not so old 
a servant as Hunt, knew perfectly well what Miss 
Deverell’s position had hitherto been. 

‘Certainly, Sir Francis,’ she hastened to say, ‘ I 
quite understand ; you would wish Miss Deverell to 
have everything of the best, no doubt ? * 

‘ Quite so, March, of the very best.* 

He was at all events determined to do his duty 
by the girl. That was how he put it to himself ; 
the child had thrown herself into his arms, and he 
would treat her as if in very truth she was his 
honoured and beloved grand - daughter ; no one 
should say of him that he had neglected to 
recognise her claim upon him, or had left his son’s 
child to starve. Her mother — that base-born, in- 
triguing creature — was dead, and could trouble him 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


17 


no more ; the child had turned to her fathers’ 
people, and she should be welcomed. Let her only 
lay aside her past life of disgrace and indignity 
and begin a new existence such as the daughters 
of the house of Deverell had ever led under the 
paternal roof, and all the shame of her early years 
should be forgotten and blotted out. Moreover, at 
the very bottom of his heart there was a strange 
flutter of curiosity and excitement. He wanted to 
see her, this child of his dead boy, to trace in her 
young face the likeness of the son whom he had 
disowned, and to fill his empty life with the delight 
of her young presence. 

For he was very lonely, was this poor old baronet, 
in his fine old English country house. The son whom 
he had loved was discarded and dead, and the son 
who was to bear his name and reign in his place was 
so taken up with his fine lady wife and his public life 
in London, that he had but little time to bestow upon 
his old father in the dulness of Deverell Place. 
Richard Deverell and his wife. Lady Catherine, and 
their progeny, three smart and pert little boys, came 
down regularly for Christmas, causing a great deal of 
commotion and excitement in the house. Her lady- 
ship brought her French maid and her pug, her boys 
had their tutor and their nursery governess, whilst 
Mr Deverell was accompanied by his valet and his 
private secretary. All these people created much 
turmoil in the quiet life of the sober, old-fashioned 
household. Lady Catherine lay in bed till mid-day 


i8 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


(a practice which Hunt as well as his master ab- 
horred), the boys shouted and kicked their football 
along the passages, left their books and their magic 
lantern slides all over the chairs and sofas, or 
splashed the ink about on the writing-tables. As 
to Richard Deverell, he was always writing de- 
spatches or looking over blue-books. He was M.P. 
for a London constituency, and under-secretary for 
the Colonial Coaling Stations Office into the bargain, 
so how could he be expected to devote much of his 
valuable time to his old father ! On the whole, Sir 
Francis was always very glad when the Christmas 
visit came to an end, and the whole company of ten 
souls, bag and baggage, took their departure back to 
town, and left him to himself again in the peaceful 
stagnation of his big, silent rooms. 

He derived no pleasure out of his son and his 
family, their ways were not his ways ; they were, of 
course, creditable and respectable in the highest de- 
gree ; he had no fault to find with their conduct or 
their position in the world. Richard’s whole career 
had been an upright and honourable one; his public 
life was exemplary, his private life was blameless, 
and by his marriage with Lord Braceby’s daughter 
he had but added fresh advantages of money and 
station to the name which he bore. Sir Francis had 
no complaint to make of Richard, but at his secret 
heart he did not like him. 

Mr Deverell found plenty of fault when he came 
to Deverell Place ; he had an aggravating habit of 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


19 


suggetsing improvements, of pointing out slovenli- 
ness and incapacity, of wondering how his fathej 
could have put up so long with such and such 
abuses— and he had even been known to interfere 
in the management of the stables, and to complain of 
the flavour of the wine. 

All this was annoying to Sir Francis ; so that he 
was always secretly glad when his son went away 
and left him in peace to his comfortable abuses and 
old-fashioned habits. 

When he thought about the unknown grand- 
daughter who was coming to him to-day, he 
wondered to himself what Richard would say 
about it when he came to hear of it. For certain 
Richard would disapprove, and would condemn him 
for taking the girl in, and blame him for acting upon 
an impulse of charity and affection ; there could be 
little doubt about the view Richard would take of it 
But, then, Richard was in town, and the child was to 
arrive to-night, and Sir Francis told himself that it 
would not be possible even for Mr Deverell, were he 
in his position, to act in a different fashion. 

And when he thought it all over, he was very glad 
that there had been no choice left him in the matter. 

He had a good many disturbing thoughts that day 
as he wandered restlessly about by himself over the 
house and gardens, too excited to settle down to his 
usual occupations, and too perplexed about the future 
to give his mind to anything else. 

What was to be done with Hermione Deverell 


20 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


when she arrived ? How was she to be educated ? 
Would she require a governess or finishing masters? 
He could not, moreover, rightly remember her age. 
He thought she would be thirteen or fourteen, but 
possibly she might be older — years slip away so 
quickly and young people grow up so rapidly. But 
then, supposing she were a full-blown young lady, 
what a vista of horrible disquietude opened out 
before him ! She might expect to be taken to the 
County Ball in December and to the Hunt Ball in 
January! Would he have to take her there? The 
poor old gentleman’s head went round at the bare 
possibility of it. 

And so all day long he waited for the evening with 
mingled feelings of dread and curiosity, with an 
appalling sense of a possible catastrophe, oddly 
mixed up with a strange yearning at his heart to 
see the child of his dead son. 


CHAPTER II 


Our anticipations of expected events seldom bear 
the slightest resemblance to the facts which actually 
take place. 

Hermione Deverell arrived in due course of time at 
her grandfather’s house, and Sir Francis hurried 
down to the front door to receive her, and as she 
came into the large, old-fashioned hall out of the 
damp darkness of the autumn evening, he saw in a 
moment that she was not in the very least what his 
imagination had pictured her to be. 

She was a tall, slender girl with a graceful figure, a 
bright, clever face, and eyes that were of a lovely 
luminous blue. 

Although she was only seventeen, there was 
nothing of a child about her. Early contact with 
the rough world and its troubles had given to her 
manner the composure and the self-containment of a 
woman. As she came across the wide hall to meet 
her unknown grandfather with both hands out- 
stretched towards him. Sir Francis saw with a 
pang of disappointment that she did not resemble 
his dead son in the least ; and yet at the first words 
a? 


22 


A DIFFICULI' MATTER 


she spoke, there was a something in the vibration of 
her voice which, stirred at once his long-slumbering 
memories. 

‘ Will you forgive me for coming ? Will you give 
me a home ? ’ she said in a quick, impulsive way. 

He drew her towards him and kissed her on the 
forehead. 

‘ My dear, your home should have been here long 
ago,’ he answered with a little emotion. 

‘ Oh, no — never whilst my mother was alive ! ’ she 
replied quickly. 

The answer was something of a shock to him. He 
did not want to talk about her mother — he wanted 
the very memory of that deeply-offending person to 
be wiped out and forgotten. 

‘ As long as mother was alive ’ — she went on a little 
breathlessly — ‘my place in the world was by her 
side ; in trouble and in joy I have never been parted 
from her, but now I have lost her — ’ and her voice 
broke. 

‘ Well, well, he interrupted soothingly, as he patted 
the small black-gloved hands he still held in his, ‘ you 
must forget all your troubles now and begin life 
afresh.’ 

For a moment or two she did not answer, but a 
little smile stole into her face, a smile that faded 
sadly away, as two big tears rolled down slowly over 
her cheeks and dropped down like blots of flame 
upon the old man’s thin, white hands. 

They gave him a singular sensation — those tears ! 


A DIFP7CULT MiVn'ER 


23 


How many years ago it was since a woman’s tears 
had fallen upon his hands ! 

* I know/ she said presently, looking at him stead- 
fastly, ‘ that I have got to begin life anew ; it will be 
hard work, I daresay, but it has got to be done. But 
I have left a great deal of happiness behind me, 
grandfather, and I shall never forget my mother, the 
best, and truest, and dearest woman that ever lived ! ’ 

There was a certain speech that had been brewing 
in the worthy baronet’s mind all day ; a speech to 
the effect that her father had sinned greatly against 
him in the past, but that he was willing to pardon 
his dead son, and be good to his daughter, if only 
she would forget all about the ‘play actress ’ and her 
ways and surroundings, and sever herself in thought 
as well as in deed from a connection that reflected 
nothing but disgrace upon the ancient name of 
Deverell. 

But that speech was never uttered. 

There was something about Hermione which made 
it impossible for him to say the words. He would 
not have liked to own to himself that he did not dare 
to say them ; yet that was perhaps how it was. 

This little lady, with her frank eyes and fearless 
self-possession, was mistress of the situation. He had 
expected a shy and frightened child, who would be 
filled with awe at his gr.eat venerable house, and with 
humility towards himself ; but Hermione — how was 
it? — was nothing of what he had fancied that she 
would be. 


24 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


Later on, when he found himself seated face to face 
to her at the small round dinner-table in the midst of 
the vast square dining-room, where fifty people had 
on more than one occasion feasted with ease, Sir 
Francis was filled with secret amazement, as well as 
with admiration for his grandchild. 

There was nothing in her that the most fastidious 
taste could find a fault with. She was simply, but 
adequately dressed in a black dress of some trans- 
parent fabric, cut low at the neck. Her white and 
shapely throat rose like a lily above the soft black 
draperies, her arms were round and smooth as 
polished marble, whilst her tapering wrists and small- 
pointed fingered hands reminded him in some vague, 
far-away fashion of those of his own mother, who had 
been a Mountreson with the bluest blood of England 
in her veins. 

Beneath the roseate glow of the red-shaded wax 
candles, Hermione’s golden head with its crown 
of soft rolled hair made a light of itself, like 
sunshine, in the gloom of the vast oak-panelled 
room, and her clear blue eyes, fringed with thick, dark 
lashes, shone at him pleasantly across the glass and 
silver and hot-house flowers upon the little table be- 
tween them. 

Sir Francis felt his heart swell with pride as he 
looked at her. Here, he felt, was nothing to be 
ashamed of — nothing that need remind him of 
that low-born mother of hers, whose very memory 
he desired to expunge for ever from the earth. 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


25 


* She comes of the old stock/ he thought with 
satisfaction. ‘ She will do me credit. I must marry 
her well — according to her position as my grand- 
daughter ; there will be no difficulty, with that little 
high-bred air of hers and her pretty face ; and 
once married, who is to remember that her mother 
was Nelly Barker, the actress?’ 

And straightway his thoughts began ranging about 
towards several eligible and unexceptionable mar- 
riageable men who frequented Southshire at different 
periods of the year, and who might, with advantage, 
be invited to stay at Deverell Place. 

* There is Sir Godfrey Birch, or young Vandeleur, 
who will come into the title when his uncle dies; 
and better than either, there is the squire’s nephew 
and heir, Charles Irvine, with his mother’s fortune 
and the place adjoining mine ; a good-looking fellow, 
too, that any girl might take a fancy to, with an old 
family name and money, and plenty of brains into 
the bargain. By George ! he’s the very man I I 
wonder if I could get him down next week for a 
day or two — he will be glad to get a holiday, and 
there are the pheasants to be shot, and if only Richard 
would come down for a couple of days and bring one 
or two of his own friends as well. I’ll drop him a line 
to-night.’ 

‘ Grandfather ! ’ here said the clear young voice 
from the other side of the table. 

Dinner was over, the peaches and grapes in the 
old Chelsea dishes, and the ruby wine in the heavy 


26 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


cut-glass decanters stood bv tween them. Hunt and 
his satellite had retired, and the girl and her grand- 
father were alone, 

‘ Grandfather, there is something I want to tell you,’ 
said Hermione. 

‘ Tell me anything you like, my dear,’ replied the 
old man, smiling at her, and then he lifted Ids wine- 
glass to his lips. * And first let me pledge you— here 
is health and happiness to you in the old house that 
was the home of your forefathers, and here is to our 
new life together, dear child.’ 

Hermione returned the toast with a smile, lifting 
her own wine-glass to her rosy lips, whilst a suspicious 
moisture clouded for a moment the clear lustre of her 
eyes. 

Then she set the glass down aim 'st un tasted by 
her side, and began again. 

‘ But it is rather serious what I want to say to you. 
It is something I think that I ought to tell you, and 
that you ought to know about me, before you consent 
to give me a home and to treat me as your child.’ 

Sir Francis looked at her a little uneasily. 

‘You — you don’t want to go on the stage, I sup- 
pose ? ’ he inquired, wdth sudden wrinkling up of all 
his grey old face. ‘ You are not stage-struck, I hope ? 
Haven’t got what they call the “glare of the footlights” 
on the brain, I trust?’ 

Hermione laughed gaily. ‘Oh, no, indeed ! Why, 
who would go on the stage if they were not 
obliged to ? Oh, grandfather, if you had seen, as I 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


27 


have, the hard work, the unceasing toil and strain ; 
if you had known, as I have done, the drudgery 
and the pain to a woman with failing health 
and broken spirits, who, for bare daily bread, 
has to struggle on night after night, to put on the 
paint and the rouge, to wreathe her face in hollow 
smiles, to act all sorts of gay and lively parts with an 
aching head and a breaking heart — Oh 1 you would 
not think there was much illusion left about it ! To 
the outside public the lifer may seem a gay one 
enough, full of excitement and change — but only 
those who have literally been “behind the scenes ” 
can know how sordid and unlovely it all is ! What 
heartburnings and anxieties — what bitter humiliations, 
what cruel disappointments! Ah, no ! what I have 
seen and known since my childhood of the troubles 
and trials that my dear mother has undergone has 
been enough, and more than enough, to disenchant 
me for ever from wishing to follow her career. She 
herself on her deathbed implored and entreated me 
never to do so. It is she who bade me come to you, 
who said to me, “ he is a good man and he loved your 
father once, and for your father’s sake he will be good 
to you,” and that is why I came to you, because she 
told me to.’ 

There was a moment’s silence. Hermione looked 
sadly before her — seeing, no doubt, the picture of 
that deathbed once more, and hearing still the faint 
tones of that beloved voice, now hushed for ever in 
the grave. As to Sir Francis, he cleared his throat 


28 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


once or twice — it was odd how husky he was ! Still, 
what a relief to discover that Hermione had no 
hankerings after her mother’s most undesirable pro- 
fession ! 

‘ And this very important thing that you have to 
tell me about, my dear,’ he said after a minute, 
* what may it be, pray ? ’ 

Hermione shook off her sad musings with a little 
gesture of apology. 

‘ Oh,’ she said, half laughing, ‘ it is nothing very 
wonderful after all ! Nothing, perhaps, that matters 
to anybody on earth — save to myself — only, as you 
are so good as to give me a home, and to let me live 
in your house, I think, perhaps, it is right that I 
should tell you at once.’ 

‘Yes? Well, my love, pray tell me then.’ He 
looked at her across the shining silver and glass, with 
a smile. It was some little girlish confession — some- 
thing trivial and unimportant She had smuggled a 
pet dog, or a parrot, into the house, perhaps, and she 
wanted leave to keep it. Sir Francis hated pets of 
all kinds with a deadly hatred — but still, he was not 
prepared to be very strict in this instance, if she would 
consent to keep her pets to her own rooms and not 
allow them to stray about the house and get in his 
way. 

And then Hermione spoke. 

‘ It is only,’ she said, very simply and quietly, ‘ only 
that I am engaged to be married.’ 

There was a dead silence. 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


29 


Sir Francis stared at her blankly and speechlessly ; 
his pleasant smile faded, his lower jaw had fallen a 
little, there was horror and dismay in his widened 
grey eyes. 

Hermione toyed unconsciously with the grapes 
upon her plate. She had not the faintest idea that 
she had said anything extraordinary, or of a dis- 
turbing nature. She did not even notice the death- 
like silence, being for the moment fully occupied with 
sundry private little musings of her own. 

‘ You — are — engaged — to be — married ? * 

The words came out haltingly, hoarsely, one after 
the other, with a strange, dull intensity. 

The girl lifted her head quickly. When she saw 
his face she was startled, it looked so grey and so 
old, years greyer and older than it had done a 
moment ago. 

‘ Is that true?’ he said in a gasping whisper. ‘ Do 
you mean it ? ’ 

‘ Certainly it is true, and I mean it,’ she replied 
wonderingly. ‘Why, grandfather, why do you look 
at me like that? There is nothing wrong in it, I 
suppose, is there ? ’ 

‘ Who is he ? ’ was all that Sir Francis was capable 
of uttering. 

‘ His name is Percival Green,’ answered the girl 
softly, lingering with a little unconscious tenderness 
over her lover’s name. 

‘ Green ?’ repeated Sir Francis, in a tone of positive 
disgust, ‘ Green ! ’ 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


30 

‘Well, I believe Green is not his real name, you 
know ; he has only taken it,’ Hermione proceeded to 
explain. 

Sir Francis positively jumped. 

‘ Not his real name ! Good heavens ! has the man 
got an alias ! What is his real name, then ? ’ 

‘Well, I don’t know — he never would tell me. 
His people would not like it, he said, if he used his 
real name ; perhaps he will tell me some day.’ 

‘And this Mr Green — pray, what is he? What 
does he do?’ 

‘ Well, generally he does the character parts, but 
sometimes he has taken the comic man, and just 
latterly he has been doing the leading lover ! ’ 

‘ Great heavens ! the man is an actor, then ? ’ 

Hermione nodded serenely. ‘Yes, certainly, he 
is an actor.* 

‘ And when he was leading lover, as you call it, 
continued the old man, with withering sarcasm, 
‘you were the lady he made love to, I suppose?’ 

‘ Oh, no, never. I never went on the stage in any 
of our tours. Mother used always to take that part. 
That was how he came to know me so well, because 
he used to come to our lodgings wherever we were, 
to go through his scenes with her.’ 

Sir Francis sprang to his feet, and pushed his 
chair violently away from the table. 

‘ There, there, don’t say another word. This most 
outrageous folly must be given up. A Miss Deverell 
cannot mate with a strolling actor ! Good heavens ! 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


31 


child, how can you have had the effrontery to 
suggest such a thing to me? I don’t want to be 
angry with you, Hermione, but you must see for 
yourself that the idea is positively preposterous! 
Go to your room, my dear child, and in the morning 
we will come to an understanding together about 
this matter.’ He drew her towards him and gave 
her a hasty kiss. 

* But, grandfather — ’ she began. 

‘Not another word — not a syllable! I forbid you 
to speak. Go to bed now and rest after your 
journey. I will talk to you in the morning.’ 


CHAPTER III 


Mr Percival Green had spent a troubled and 
most uncomfortable night at the ‘King George’ 
Inn, in the town of Allhampton. His night had 
been troublous by reason of the misery and con- 
fusion of his thoughts, and filled with discomfort, 
owing to the smallness and hardness of the small 
attic bed on which he had vainly endeavoured to 
court slumber. 

He was glad enough to leave it when the morning 
sunshine crept in through the sloping window in the 
roof, and shone full into his face at six o’clock in 
the morning. 

It was a beautiful October morning; the yellow- 
ing woods were wet with dews, and the sunlight 
sparkled Upon the long cobwebs that festooned 
themselves like wreaths of diamonds from leaf to 
leaf, and lay like a glittering maze all over the 
long grass. 

Allhampton was only a very small place, scarcely 
worthy to be called a town, and the ‘ King George,’ 
although considered the best inn it could boast of, 
was but a poor little hostelry after all. When Mr 
Green had discussed a hearty but homely break- 
fast of bacon and eggs, he went and stood at the 
32 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


33 


front door of the inn and surveyed the scene 
before him. 

The ‘King George’ stood at the edge of a ^vide 
breezy common, whereon a flock of geese, a tribe 
of children, a tethered donkey, and several dogs 
and pigs were disporting themselves, each after his 
kind. To the right lay the little town in the hollow 
of the hill, to the left the open country sloping away 
up to the Downs beyond. 

The young man stood for some moments looking at 
the scene before him, at the hills, at the woods, at the 
church spire nestling amorgst the trees. He looked 
at it with a certain tenderness of recognition ; it was 
years, seven whole years since he had seen it all, but 
for certain the landscape was not entirely new to him. 

Whilst he stood there the landlord came out of the 
bar and came and stood beside him. 

‘You are looking at our view, sir?’ he remarked 
tentatively; ‘’tis a pretty country, and there’s a many 
tourists come here in the summer months; some stays 
here for the fishing, there’s no trout stream in all 
Southshire that can beat the A Her down yonder, that 
runs through the town ; some comes with their cycles 
and goes right along the valley to Newchester to see 
the cathedral, and on beyond to the Forest of Sale ; 
and some there be as goes with a stout stick and a 
knapsack on their backs up to the Downs for sketching, 
or such like ; ’ and then the landlord, who had not 
been host at the ‘ King George ’ seven years ago, 
looked somewhat curiously at Mr Green, as though 
c 


34 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


in mute inquiry as to which of these particular cate- 
gories of tourists he chanced to belong. 

Percival only smiled a little to himself, and turning 
suddenly upon his host, said, — 

‘Tell me, is there not a place called Goldsbury 
Towers hereabouts ? ’ 

‘ Certainly, sir, certainly. One of the finest places 
in the country, one of our show places, I may say, and 
one of our oldest families.’ 

‘ Ah ! and the family — they live there ? ’ 

‘For the last few >ears, sir, Mr Irvine has been 
abroad, and the house is let, I am sorry to say ; he is 
a loss to the country, sir, is Squire Irvine, for the 
Irvines are the oldest family in Southshire, and no 
one was more looked up to nor respected. But they 
do say as Mr Irvine can’t abear to look at the place 
now ; he’ve had a trouble, sir, a bad trouble ; it was 
before my day, but I’ve been told about it. There 
was a son, an only son, but there was some queer 
story about him ; anyhow, his father turned him out of 
his house, and his name is never mentioned, and they 
say it’s about broke his father’s heart ; the young ladies 
is nice enough, but what’s the use of girls when there 
is no son to inherit a place that has gone down from 
fatner to son for three or four hundred years ? ’ 

‘ Who will it go to, then ? ’ inquired the stranger. 
‘To a nephew — Mr Charles Irvine, I believe.’ 

‘Will Mr Irvine never forgive his son, then?’ 
‘Never, I believe, sir. You see, a man like the 
squire is as proud as Lucifer, and this were some 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


35 


sort of disgrace or dishonesty, IVe heard say — though 
no one knows the rights of it— it was hushed up for 
the sake of the squire and his lady.’ 

There was a silence. Mr Green continued to gaze 
at the yellowing woods and the wide gorse-sprinkled 
common, and the landlord whistled an old hunting 
song under his breath. 

‘ And Deverell Place ? ’ inquired the young man, 
with a sudden abruptness. ‘ Is that far from here ? ’ 

‘Just a mile, sir, or less, to the park gates, if you 
walk across the common. Ah, that is a fine place, 
too, and Sir Francis, though getting old now, is an 
excellent landlord and very popular hereabouts.’ 

‘Can I walk in the park, do you think?’ 

‘ Oh, yes, there’s a public pathway ; if you keep 
bearing to the left you will get to the palings, and 
then go straight on and you will find a wicket gate 
that leads you into the finest part of the park 
directly. There are splendid trees and fine views, 
too, if you 'keep on up the hillside.’ 

‘ Thanks, I think I will take a walk there.’ • 

‘ Shall you be stopping on here, sir? ’ 

‘ No, I have to catch the afternoon train to New- 
chester.’ 

The young man started off at a good swinging 
pace across the common. It seemed as though he 
knew by instinct the exact position of the wicket 
gate to which the landlord had directed him, for he 
struck upon it straight from the common, and entered 
the park with the air of one who was familiar with 


36 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


the surroundings. He found himself in a thick grove 
of magnificent beeches, under which the moss-covered 
pathway wound for some distance along the side of 
the hill. He followed it for some time, walking 
quickly, and often consulting a queer, old-fashioned 
gold watch which he wore. 

At length he came to a clearing in the trees, from 
which there was a distant view of the fine old grey- 
stone mansion in the hollow beneath him. Flere, 
selecting the mossy bole of an ancient beech tree, he 
sat down, and taking a pipe from his pocket, filled it, 
and began to smoke in patience. 

He had not very long to waiU Presently across 
the wide open space below him, dotted here and 
there with clumps of magnificent oaks and elms, he 
descried the slender figure of a black-robed girl 
coming from the house towards him. 

Hermione had never been in Deverell Park before, 
but as she walked, she referred frequently to a paper 
she held in her hand, upon which the most elaborate 
directions were written down. 

‘ Leave the gardens by the gate at the left-hand 
corner,’ she murmured to herself as she walked, ‘ then 
bear to the right, leaving the clump of thorn trees to 
the left, then past two old oaks, then follow a narrow 
track upwards towards the beech woods at the foot 
of the Downs.’ 

‘ I wonder,’ she said half aloud, ‘ how he comes 
to remember it all so well ; he has been in this 
country as a child, he told me, but it is wonderful 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


37 


how exact the directions are. Here are the thorn 
trees, and there are the two old oaks, and here is the 
path ; he must have got a most marvellous memory ! ’ 

And then all at once she looked up and saw him 
sitting beneath the beech tree on the slope of the hill 
above her. 

Her face changed a little as she caught sight of 
him. It was a sensitive face, and the brave look upon 
it gave way, and her lips trembled, for she had some- 
thing hard to tell him. 

He came hastening down the steep slope to meet 
her, and drew her up by both hands under the shelter 
of the trees. 

‘ My dearest ! how glad I am to see you ! Well, 
and how is it with you ? Has the old man been kind 
to you ? Do you think. you will be happy here ? ’ 

‘ Oh, yes, he has been kind — very kind ! ’ she 
answered, as she let him place her upon the mossy 
seat and sit down beside her, ‘ but as to being happy ! 
Oh, Percival ! I did as you thought I ought to do, 
and I told him that I was engaged to you.’ 

‘Yes!’ 

‘ Well, last night, he only called it folly, and he 
would not listen to me ; he told me to go to bed, and 
that he would speak to me again to-day. And this 
morning after breakfast he sent for me and asked me 
all about you, and he was very, very angry ; he would 
not perhaps have minded that you were poor ; but it 
was because — ’ 

‘Because I am an actor? Yes, I understand.’ 


38 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


He nodded and looked straight before him, across 
the fine old park, and the woods, and the green slopes 
on which the red deer were grazing. How well he 
understood ! 

‘If I do not give you up, he will send me away,* 
she said in a broken voice. ‘ He reproached me for 
wanting to marry you ; he told me I was unworthy 
to be my father’s child ! I must give you up, he 
said.’ 

‘And you?’ He turned round upon her, looking 
her full in the eyes. She looked at him for a minute 
without speaking. Yet no woman who loved Percival 
Green could have looked upon him unmoved. His 
was no ordinary face ; it was not so much that it was 
a handsome face, as that it was a face full of power 
and of character. 

‘ Percival, I will never give you up ! ’ said Hermione, 
in a low voice. 

He took her hand and held it fast in both of his. 

• My love,’ she went on with a deep emotion, ‘ take 
me away with you again — let us go back to the old 
life together. What does poverty signify so long as 
we have each other? I will not live a life of idleness 
in this gilded cage, if the price of my luxury is to be 
the loss of you. Let us throv/ in our lot together. 
Take me with you, Percival, take me away. I cannot 
— cannot live without you,’ and then in an agony 
of grief and wretchedness she buried her face upon 
his shoulder. 

He put his arm round her, and held her closely 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


39 


and silently to his heart. For a moment he could 
not speak. Ah! what a temptation it was. Why 
could he not take the sweet life she so frankly offered 
him, and make it his for ever ? 

He thought of it all, and the longing to take her 
at her word rushed tumultuously into his heart ; but 
then he thought too of the name he dared not own, of 
the sordid and poor life he must not ask her to share, 
and of the sin that lay like a great gulf for ever 
betwixt Sir Francis Deverell’s grand-daughter and 
himself At last he spoke to her. 

‘ Hermione, love — listen to me. I cannot take such 
a sacrifice from you, dear. I must not. Do not 
tempt me. Do you remember how your dear mother, 
when she was dying, trusted you to me? how she 
bade me take you here and leave you safely under 
your grandfather’s roof? and how she bade you make 
your home with him if he would take you in, and live 
with your father’s people and cast in your future with 
them ? My dear, we must do as your mother wished. 
I had no right to steal your love. 1 have no right to 
keep it. I cannot drag you down to that wretched 
life of hardship and of poverty out of which it was her 
chief wish that you should escape. If I love you, it 
is because I can’t help myself ; but I will never allow 
my love to become a curse to you. Do as your grand- 
father tells you, give me up, and learn to forget me.* 

‘ I can never forget you, Percival I ’ 

* Never is a long day, dear. I am not worth much ; 
there are many other men who would make you far 


40 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


happier than I can do ; you are very young ; one 
gets over things. If ever you want a friend, you will 
know where to find one. You know always where a 
letter will reach me, but for the present, at least, we 
must part. I must go back to the old life of toil, and 
you must stay where it was your mother’s dying wish 
that you should be.’ 

The sun had gone behind a cloud, the morning 
brightness had become dimmed, and the wind swept 
with a little chill gust across the Downs. 

Around those two as they sat hand in hand beneath 
the beech trees, the brown leaves fluttered in little 
whirling eddies. Nothing was bright any longer. 

And then Percival Green put from him the greatest 
temptation life had ever brought to him with strong 
hands and a brave heart, and wished a long farewell 
to the weeping girl who had offered to turn and go 
back with him into a life of poverty and toil. They 
parted at last almost without a word ; only with 
clinging hands gripped hard together. 

‘If ever — ’ he thought, as he went slowly away 
towards the village and the inn — ‘ if ever I can get 
back my narne and my place in the world, if ever 
my father looks me in the face again, and owns me 
as his son, then — and then only — will I come back 
and win Hermione Deverell, if she is still to be won.’ 


CHAPTER IV 


A WHOLE week had come and gone since Hermione 
Deverell had come to take up her abode at Deverell 
Place — and Sir Francis had perhaps not spent so 
happy a week since he had been left a widower. 

For, contrary to all his expectations and intentions, 
the little old gentleman had fallen desperately in 
love with his orphan grand-daughter ; she answered 
every dream of his heart, every desire of his 
existence. After that little breeze within the first 
twenty-four hours concerning some dreadful creature 
called Green, to whom she had fancied herself en- 
gaged, but whom — after thinking it over, and listen- 
ing to his good advice — she had most sensibly agreed 
to relinquish. Sir Francis had had no fault whatever 
to find with Hermione. 

There had been some little scenes between them 
concerning that same person Green on the day after 
her arrival. Their first interview had been very 
unsatisfactory, but on coming in from her morning 
walk in the park an hour or so later, with a pale 
face and great hollows round her blue eyes, as 
though she had been weeping, the girl had bidden 
Hunt go and tell her grandfather that she desired to 
speak to him again. She went into the great, gloomy 
41 


42 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


library and sat down in a vast arm-chair covered with 
musty, worm-eaten leather, to wait for him. 

‘ Love is over for me ! ’ said Hermione to herself 
as she waited. ‘ I offered myself to him, and he 
has refused to take me! Can a woman endure a 
deeper humiliation than that ? Are there any depths 
in life more hopelessly profound? Good-bye, then, 
sweet dreams of love and of happiness ! though I shall 
never, never forget him — never cease to look back to 
the brief time of our love as to the happiest time of 
my whole life — yet from henceforth — duty — that 
duty to which he bade me adhere — must be my only 
maxim.’ 

Her grandfather came in. He rubbed his hands 
one over the other and looked a little nervously at 
her. She had been very determined — very obstinate, 
he had called it — when they had parted after break- 
fast ; the old man had said to himself that here was 
apparently a repetition of her father’s doggedness, and 
how, he had asked himself — how was he to deal 
with it? 

But Hermione was now a changed being. She 
rose to her feet at his entrance. 

‘ Grandfather,’ she said very quietly, ‘ I wish to tell 
you that I have decided not to consider myself en- 
gaged to Mr Green any longer.’ 

‘Ah! my dear child!’ he cried delightedly, ‘you 
are indeed a good and sensible girl ! I knew you 
would come to see things in a proper light, and to 
understand that such an engagement would have 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


43 


been an anomaly. I felt certain that my arguments 
would end by convincing you of your mistake ! ’ 

A faint smile flickered for a moment across the 
sensitive face. 

‘ Oh, yes,’ she answered with a little sarcasm, which, 
naturally, he failed to perceive, ‘ it was the way you 
argued it out with me that has made me alter my 
mind ! ’ 

‘ And some day we must find you a really nice 
husband, my dear. Some one suited to you in every 
way and worthy of you.’ 

‘No,’ she said sharply; ‘not that! Please under- 
stand me, grandpapa, at once and for ever. I will 
not marry Mr Green— things — circumstances — feel- 
ings, have come to me which have made me see that 
marriage with him is impossible — but neither will I 
marry anyone else — of that I am determined I I will 
never marry, never, never I do not try to persuade me 
to do so. No ; all I desire is to live with you always, 
and to devote my whole life to you.’ 

The old gentleman took her in his arms and kissed 
and blessed her. ‘Never is a long day, you know, 
my dear I ’ he said to her, smiling, ‘ and you are only 
seventeen, and girls change their minds very often. 
However, I confess I am in no hurry to part with 
you. I am a lonely old man, and if you can brighten 
my declining years, I shall not quarrel with you for 
not wanting to run away from me at once ; we will 
not at all events talk about a husband at present.’ 

‘ As long as you never talk about him at all,’ said 


44 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


Hermione, with a sad little smile, ' that is the only 
condition I make with you.’ 

After that the subject w^s tacitly dropped, and Sir 
Francis became speedily as happy as a schoolboy. 

Hunt was greatly surprised when his master desired 
him to get out his riding-breeches and gaiters one 
morning, and to send orders to the stable that his old 
cob, who had been doing nothing for the last two 
years but eat his head off in golden idleness, should 
be saddled and brought round to the door with Miss 
Deverell’s new thoroughbred mare, which he had just 
presented to her. 

The whole household peeped over the staircase and 
out of back doors and windows to behold the old 
gentleman set off on his ride beside his grand- 
daughter. 

‘ Sits as well as ever I ’ murmured the old coachman, 
admiringly, as the couple rode off together down the 
wide avenue of lime trees, ‘ as straight and upright as 
a boy, he is ! Why, he’ll be follerin’ the ’ounds again 
when November comes, I shouldn’t wonder!’ 

Hermione had been very nervous indeed at first. 
She had never ridden in her life till she came to 
Deverell Place, and a few lessons round the meadow 
from the old coachman had been hardly enough to 
give her the necessary confidence. Nevertheless, 
seeing how important a thing it was in Sir Francis’s 
eyes that she should learn to sit well and manage 
her horse, she exerted herself to her uttermost to 
master the art of horsemanship, and with such 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


45 


excellent results, that she was soon quite at home in 
the saddle, and her daily rides with her grandfather 
became, after a time, the chief pleasure of her new 
life. 

One morning he said to her as they turned out of 
the park gates, — 

‘ Now, I am going to take you a new way, through 
the property of a neighbour and dear friend of mine, 
named Irvine. Goldsbury Towers is a fine old house, 
and there are some beautiful glades in the park, down 
which we can enjoy a gallop. In old days it used to 
be my favourite ride, but since the house has been 
let to strangers, I have been chary of using my 
privilege of riding through the place.’ 

* Are you not friends with the tenants, then, grand- 
papa ? ’ 

‘ No, they are vulgar people, with no pretention to 
refinement or education. Nobody of any note in the 
country has called on them. I have missed my friend 
Irvine sorely these last seven years, and, poor fellow, 
he and I had a great bond of sympathy in common.’ 

He was silent for a few minutes ; and Hermione, 
who was learning to study the old man’s moods and 
fancies, waited a little to see if he would go on, and 
then asked softly and sympathetically, — 

* Yes, and what was that ? ’ 

‘ Well, Hermione, you know that your father — my 
dearest son — disappointed me.’ 

‘ We will not talk of that,’ said the girl, with a hot 
flush, and that little pang of anger and of indignation 


46 


A DIFFICUI.T MATTER 


which always filled her heart whenever he threw a 
slight upon her mother. 

‘Very well, I respect your feeling. I will not speak 
of it. And in this case it is not fair to compare the 
two cases, for what in my case was only a bitter 
disappointment, was in poor Irvine’s case a frightful 
shame and a crushing sorrow. For he, too, had a son, 
an only son, whom he idolised ; who, in order to pay 
a large sum of money which he owed in debts con- 
tracted at college in the vicious habit of gambling, 
forged his father’s name upon a cheque, a crime for 
which there can be no forgiveness in a father’s heart’ 
‘Was it found out ? Was he tried ? ’ 

‘No; fortunately for the family, the authorities at 
Cambridge discovered it before it had become public. 
A cousin of the poor fellow’s — a nephew of my 
neighbour’s — very properly gave the information at 
once to headquarters, and the cheque was stopped 
and the matter hushed up. The squire paid the 
money to discharge the debt — a matter of five hundred 
pounds or so — through his nephew, Charles Irvine, 
who promised to settle the debt, and to ensure secrecy ; 
in fact, the money was only to be paid under condi- 
tion that the matter should be hushed up, but natur- 
ally young Irvine’s name was struck off the college 
books, and he disappe.ared ; his father never saw him 
again, and he has every reason to believe that he is 
dead.’ 

‘ How terrible for his parents ! ’ 

‘You may well say so. His poor mother died of 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


47 


the shock, and as to the squire, he has never held up 
his head again. Fie let the place at once, and went 
away with his daughters abroad.’ 

‘ And the nephew, Mr Charles Irvine, what became 
of him ? ’ 

‘ Oh, he is in London now, and doing very well. 
He is a barrister in capital practice. Young Charles 
behaved excellently well, I believe, throughout the 
whole business ; he has a widowed mother, to whom 
he is a devoted son. Of course Irvine intends to 
make him his heir, and this place and all the money 
will come to him some day, in the place of his cousin, 
whom he has disinherited.’ 

They had now turned into Goldsbury Park, and 
were riding across the grass under the shade of wide- 
spreading chestnut trees, whose yellowing leaves 
strewed the ground beneath their horses’ feet. 

Hermione felt strangely interested in the story she 
had just heard, but, with that curious tenderness of 
heart which many women feel towards those that 
have sinned and gone down in the world, all her 
sympathy went to the disinherited son, and she 
could not help longing to hear more of one whose 
life had been shipwrecked in so terri^ble a manner. 

‘And the son, young Irvine, did he offer no ex- 
planation, no excuse for his conduct?’ she inquired. 

‘None whatever; what could he have said? Be- 
sides, his father never saw him again, everything 
was settled through Charles.’ 

‘Do you mean that he never pleaded his own 


48 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


cause? never had the opportunity of clearing him- 
self?* 

‘ Never that I know of. I suppose, being guilty of 
the crime, there was nothing to be said ; the sooner 
he vanished the better.’ 

‘But did not his mother insist upon seeing her 
son ?’ 

‘ Irvine would not permit her to see him. He did 
not consider that any good could be done by a 
meeting between them, and he forbade her to hold 
any communication with him.' 

‘ Oh, poor woman ! poor woman ! ’ murmured 
Hermione, pitifully. ‘ No wonder that she died ! ’ 

Just at that moment the riders caught sight of a 
gentleman, who was advancing on foot at a rapid 
pace under the trees towards them. His eyes ^vere 
bent on the ground, and he was swinging a stick in 
his hand as he walked. Evidently he had not yet 
caught sight of them. 

‘How tiresome!’ exclaimed Sir Francis, ‘here 
must be one of the Sampsons I All these years 
I’ve ridden here occasionally and never happened 
to meet one of the family I It makes it so awkward, 
as I’ve never called on them. I shall have to stop 
and explain who I am, and tell him that I have 
the keys of the park through the Irvines.’ 

‘ He does not see us yet. Why should we not 
turn round and so avoid him, or else strike across 
the grass to the right?’ suggested Hermione. 

‘But I wanted so particularly to show you the 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


49 


view of the house a little further on/ grumbled her 
grandfather. ‘Confound the fellow! It must be 
one of the sons, I suppose.* 

And then they drew nearer to him, and suddenly 
the pedestrian threw up his stick and shook it in the 
air in greeting, and Sir Francis cried out excitedly, — 

‘Why, bless my soul! it’s Charles Irvine himself! 
Why, what on earth can he be doing down here? 
Why, Charles, is it really you ? What a remarkable 
thing ! I was taking you for one of those Sampson 
cubs. Hal ha! shows how blind my old eyes are 
getting, and my grand-daughter and I were thinking 
of cutting across the grass in order to avoid meet- 
ing you. By the way, let me introduce my grand- 
daughter, Miss Deverell — Mr Charles Irvine.’ 

The young man lifted his hat and looked critically 
and a little curiously up at the fair young face and 
the graceful form in the close-fitting habit above him. 

He was smooth-shaven, with clear-cut features and 
very short-cropped flaxen hair, his nose was a thought 
too long and narrow, and his eyes were set a little 
closely together, and yet, though she had certainly 
never seen him before, Hermione could not help 
feeling that somehow, and in some odd fashion, 
there was something familiar to her in his face. 
The curious part of this impression being, that after 
this first time of seeing him — when it struck her 
strongly — she never had a renewal of this idea 
again, so that afterwards she dismissed it entirely 
from her mind. 


D 


50 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


‘ I am very glad you did not ride away, Sir Francis/ 
said Charles Irvine, in answer to the old man, ‘ because 
I was just starting off to walk to Deverell Place, as I 
want particularly to see you. Something very im- 
portant and very serious has happened, as you may 
imagine from seeing me down here ; I have very 
bad news. Sir Francis,’ and his face became serious 
and solemn. 

‘ Bad news ! ’ faltered the old man. ‘Your uncle — ? * 

‘ I received a telegram last night from my Cousin 
Annie ; my uncle died suddenly yesterday morning 
at Vienna.’ 

‘ Good God ! How terrible ! My poor, dear, old 
friend ! ’ and Sir Francis was so much upset that for 
a few moments he was unable to speak. 

‘Annie tells me that his will* and all his papers are 
here in the strong-room,’ went on Mr Irvine, ‘and 
that you are left executor. Sir Francis ; so I came 
down from town by the first train, as I must find 
them before I go out to join the girls at Vienna. I 
shall start to-night. I thought we ought to look for 
them together, and I was comirig over to consult you. 
It is fortunate that we have met. Will you come to 
the house now ? ’ 

‘Yes, certainly, certainly — we will go together.* 

And Hermione, not knowing what else to do, rode 
on by her grandfather’s side to the house he had 
wished to show to her. 


CHAPTER V 


Presently Hermione found herself left alone outside 
the gardens of Goldsbury Towers. Her grandfather 
had dismounted and tied his horse to the iron fence, 
and then Charles Irvine suggested politely that Miss 
Deverell should also dismount and come into the 
house,, or at least wait in the gardens. 

But Sir Francis would not hear of it. There was 
an awkwardness about it, he said ; as he had never 
called upon the Sampsons, he could not possibly 
claim any sort of hospitality from them now. Busi- 
ness alone forced him to enter the house, and 
Hermione could very well wait outside. 

‘Walk your mare up and down, my love,’ he said, 
as he went away with Mr Irvine. ‘ I shall not be 
long.’ 

But he was very long. So long that she got quite 
tired of waiting, and weary to death of walking up 
and down the length of the sunk fence that lay just 
out of sight of the windows, in front of which she did 
not natuially wish to pass. 

Her mare, too, began to get fidgety — the day was 
warm for the time of year, and the flies were trouble- 
some. Rowena was a mare of spirit and of mettle, 
and to be kept pottering up and down for an hour, 
SI 


52 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


with a myriad of small, stinging creatures settling 
incessantly upon her arched neck and glossy flanks, 
began to cause her extreme irritation. In order to 
vary the monotony of the proceedings, Hermione 
turned her head down a side road which led to the 
farm buildings at the back of the house. Mr Samp- 
son, in his seven years’ tenancy of Goldsbury, had 
gone in excessively for farming operations, and it so 
happened that on this particular day a threshing 
machine, which had been at work the whole of the 
previous day in the barn, was at this very hour due 
to move on to its next engagement at Farmer Hicks 
in the village. So it came about that as Hermione, 
on her little dancing mare, turned a sharp corner 
round a thick plantation of fir trees, she came sud- 
denly upon the traction engine snorting forth smoke 
and fire, that, with the heavy threshing machine in 
tow, was just starling out of the gate of the farm- 
yard with a great uproar and commotion. 

Rowena threw up her dainty head in alarm and 
whipped violently round, and Hermione, who was not 
quite the horsewoman which she hoped some day to 
become, had a near shave of being thrown off*. By 
the time she had by a somewhat undignified scramble 
regained her seat and gathered up her reins again, 
Rowena was fairly bolting across the grass, and 
Hermione soon discovered, to her infinite dismay, 
that she was utterly beyond her control. 

After the first few moments she regained her 
eprsence of mind, and her terror began to diminish. 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


53 


The mare was galloping across a portion of the park 
which they had not passed in her morning’s ride, 
but Hermione perceived that the ground sloped 
gently upwards, and she reasoned with herself that 
this fact was to her advantage, and that the odds 
were that on beginning the ascent of the slope the 
mare would slacken her pace, and that she would be 
able to regain her hold over her. Meanwhile there 
was nothing to be done but to sit tight in her saddle 
and to keep the animal’s head straight. 

Hermione, however, was indulging in delusive 
hopes. For between herself and the low hill to 
which her terrified steed was making, there lay a 
very great and terrible danger. The River Aller, which 
took its rise amongst the bleak Downs above Golds- 
bury Park, came tumbling over its rocky bed through 
Mr Irvine’s property, and lay in a deep, steep-banked 
gully between herself and the wooded slope, which 
she was rapidly nearing. 

All at once this fearful fact burst upon her in its 
full horror. She saw the rushing stream between its 
banks, and realised that death very possibly lay 
before her. There had been heavy rain in the night, 
and the river was swollen, and the muddy current 
ran angrily down amongst great brown boulders that 
cropped up here and there amongst the waters. 

With all her might and main Hermione tugged at 
the reins in the vain hope of turning Rowena from 
certain destruction, but her weak little hands were 
powerless to move the mare an inch out of her course. 


54 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


for she had the bit between her teeth, and was by 
this time in that condition of blind and maddened 
terror which renders a horse for the time being the 
most idiotic and senseless of all animals. 

Just then she heard a shout behind her; she could 
not catch the words, for the wind of her flight as she 
rushed wildly along carried away the sound, but she 
turned her head and saw that her grandfather’s cob, 
with someone, not Sir Francis, in the saddle, was 
galloping furiously behind her. 

The sight gave her a momentary gleam of hope — 
but in the next moment she realised that it was too 
late, and that no help could avail her any more. 

For the surging river yawned just beneath her. One 
wild leap, one agonised cry that was borne upon the air 
behind her, then a splash, a struggle, a frantic plunge 
into the abyss, and horse and rider rolled over and 
over into a deep swirling pool in the seething waters. 

For a long time Hermione remembered, or seemed 
to remember, nothing more. The next thing that 
dawned upon her returning consciousness, was her 
grandfather’s face, white as death, bending over her, 
and as she opened her eyes she heard him cry, — 

‘ She is alive ! thank God, she is alive ! ’ 

She lifted her head. She was lying upon the grass 
— she was dripping wet — and Mr Charles Irvine, wet 
himself to the skin, was kneeling by her side support- 
ing her head. She heard her grandfather say, — 

‘ Go home at once, Charles — you will catch your 
death of cold. Run all the way, and send off a carriage 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


55 


at once for her.^ Now that we know she is alive, we 
cannot afford to waste any more time.’ 

And then Hermione thinks she must have fainted, 
because everything became dark about her again, and 
she heard no more. 

She found herself, after what seemed an interminable 
interval, lying in a warm, dry bed, with hot flannels 
rolled about her and a doctor holding her pulse. 

She had been taken to Goldsbury Towers and put 
to bed. 

Towards evening she began to recover, and her 
grandfather came to see her. 

From him she learnt for the first time that Charles 
Irvine had saved her life. But for him she must have 
been carried away and drowned. He had arrived just 
in time, and had plunged into the river to her rescue, 
and being a very strong swimmer, had succeeded in 
catching hold of her just as she was sinking for the 
third time. 

The unlucky Rowena had perished ; she had indeed 
been dragged out of the river, but was so badly in- 
jured that she had to be shot at once. 

The Sampson family, despite the awkwardness of 
the situation, had been everything that was kind and 
hospitable. Still, Sir Francis was anxious to get 
home, and the brougham had been sent for from 
Deverell, and was now waiting at the door to take 
them back ; and as soon as the doctor declared that 
Miss Deverell was none the worse for her fright and 
her ducking, and might be moved with safety, it was 


56 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


decided that they should go home without any further 
delay. When she was dressed in clothes which the 
brougham had brought over for her, her grandfather 
came upstairs to fetch her. 

‘ My dear, if you feel strong enough, before we start 
there is something which I think you ought to do. 
You ought to thank Charles Irvine for risking his 
life in order to save yours.* 

‘ Oh, yes, grandpapa, indeed I wish to do so ; I trust 
he is none the worse for his brave conduct* 

‘ He is quite well, I am happy to say, and is most 
anxious to see you, but he has put off his journey 
back to town until the last train to-night, in order to 
be sure that you are safe.’ 

Hermione went downstairs leaning upon her grand- 
father’s arm ; she was pale, and felt very weak and 
shaken — but otherwise none the worse. A heavy 
cloak lined with fur was wrapped about her, and her 
delicate face and golden head rose like a graceful 
flower out of the rich brown colouring of the fur 
collar round her neck. 

Charles Irvine stood at the foot of the staircase 
looking up at her as she came slowly down. He 
thought he had seldom seen a lovelier picture than 
the pale girl leaning against the old man. Her face 
flushed a little at the sight of him. 

When she got to the bottom of the staircase, she 
put out her hand timidly and turned her beautiful 
blue eyes upon his face. 

‘ I do not know what to say, how to thank you,’ 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


57 


she faltered. ‘ I am told that you have saved my life. 
I suppose that I owe you more that I can ever repay.* 
‘ Do not speak of repayment/ he answered, bending 
over her hand and holding it fast between his own. 
‘ I am only thankful that I got there in time. If you 
will only look upon me as a friend, and allow me to 
take an unalterable interest in you, then I shall be 
amply rewarded for the service I have done you.* 
Somehow, if he had said less, he would have im- 
pressed her more. She withdrew her hand very 
quietly rom his, and with a smile and a bend of 
the head passed out through the door to the 
carriage which was waiting for her outside. 

She was very silent all the way home, so silent 
that Sir Francis began to feel anxious and worried 
about her, fearing that she was not equal to the 
drive after all, and wishing that he had allowed 
her to remain the night at Goldsbury, even though 
she must have spent it under a roof that tempor- 
arily belonged to the hated and despised Sampsons. 

But Hermione was not ill. She was only 
struggling with a feeling that rendered her very 
unhappy. 

It was so strong a feeling of repugnance to- 
wards the man who had saved her life, that it 
filled her with positive disgust at herself. 

‘ How ungrateful I must be ! * she thought. 
‘What a base and mean nature I must have! 
Instead of being filled with kind and warm feelings 
towards this young man, who at the peril of his 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


58 

own life has saved me from certain death, here I 
am considering the position of his features and the 
expression of his eyes, and conjuring up all sorts of 
disagreeable fancies about him, and saying to myself 
that I don’t like him ! How wicked I must be ! ’ 

As they went through their own lodge gates, 
the man who ran forward to open the gate looked 
up eagerly at her. 

‘ Hope you are none the worse, miss,’ he said, 
touching his hat to her. He was one of the 
keepers, a brawny, red-faced fellow with coarse 
features, and a thoroughly honest and open ex- 
pression. 

It went through Hermione’s mind to wish that it 
had been such a man as that who had saved her life, 
and not Charles Irvine, with his smooth voice and 
clean-cut features, and those eyes that were set quite 
the eiglith of an inch too closely together. 

‘ If it had been honest Jim Davis,’ she thought, ‘ I 
could have been really grateful to him. I would have 
looked after little Bessie’s education, and begged all 
sorts of things from grandpapa for his wife to make 
their cottage more comfortable. Grandpapa would 
have promoted him to be head keeper, and I 
could have thanked him from the bottom of my 
heart. As it is — well ! — I am raising a mountain out 
of a molehill — for I don’t suppose I shall see Mr 
Charles Irvine again for a very long time.' Thank 
goodness he starts for Vienna to join his orphaned 
cousins to-morrow, and as the Sampsons’ lease is not 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


59 


up till Christmas, he is not likely to take up his abode 
at Goldsbury until he has forgotten all about jumping 
into the Aller to save me from drowning. Anyhow, 
I am not likely to see him again for a very long time.’ 

Having settled this question comfortably to her own 
satisfaction, Miss Deverell went to bed, and being 
thoroughly worn out and exhausted by her perilous 
adventure, slept soundly and profoundly until a late 
hour on the following morning. 

Her first waking thought was a curious one. 

‘ Mr Charles Irvine must have started by now ! By 
lunch time he will be crossing the Channel, and by 
dinner he will be well on his way to Vienna.’ 

She was reckoning, however, without her host. 

Having breakfasted in bed, an unusual and un- 
precedented event for her — only indulged in because 
Mrs March came herself to her bedroom to inform her 
that it was Sir Francis’s particular desire that she 
should do so — Hermione went downstairs to her 
grandfather’s study to wish him good-morning and to 
answ’er his anxious inquiries concerning her health. 

‘ I am perfectly well, dear grandpapa,’ she said 
smilingly, as she returned his affectionate greeting. 

‘ I don’t know,’ holding her at arm’s length. ‘ I 
think you look pale.’ 

Hermione laughed. ‘ That is nothing at all, it is 
only that I have lain in bed too long. You have no 
idea how strong I am, and what a splendid constitu- 
tion I have got. The only thing that troubles me is 
the fate of my poor Rowena,’ 


6o 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


‘ I am just going ofif to Allhampton to see a lady’s 
hack I have heard of for sale there ! ’ 

‘You are too good, grandpapa! I do not deserve 
another horse.’ 

‘ Nonsense ! you must have something to ride. Of 
course I shall get you another. As to poor Rowena, 
it was very unlucky for her, but she had no business 
to bolt ; a horse that runs away is not a safe animal 
for a lady to ride. When I consider what might 
have happened to my little girl if it had not been for 
that noble fellow’s pluck and presence of mind — 
Ah, well, I don’t like to think of it ! ’ and there was a 
suspicious moisture in the old gentleman’s eyes, as 
he drew her fondly for one moment to his heart. 

‘Well, well — I’m off,’ he cried, shaking off his 
emotion gaily, ‘ I shall lunch at the vicarage ; I want 
to see the vicar, but I will come home directly 
afterwards. You keep quiet this morning, my dear — 
lie on the sofa and rest, and take care of yourself.’ 

‘ But, grandpapa, I am perfectly well I ’ 

* Never mind ; do as I wish, keep quiet indoors and 
read a book, Minnie,’ he said, calling her by a little 
pet abbreviation of her Shakespearian name which 
he had adopted latterly — ‘ and when I come back we 
will have a drive in state together in the barouche, 
you and I, and we will return some of those numerous 
cards which our neighbours have been leaving upon 
you, Miss Deverell.’ 

What a change she had made in his life. Hermione 
had not the slightest idea of it herself; but Hunt, 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


6i 


when his master gave him the order for the barouche 
for the afternoon, marvelled at it. 

For years Sir Francis had not driven out in the 
barouche, nor had he been known to pay a call upon 
anybody in the neighbourhood unless forcibly taken 
out by his daughter-in-law, who considered it her 
mission to keep him well up to his social duties 
when she came to stay at Deverell Place. 

On these occasions he went forth grumblingly and 
growlingly, a very victim dragged to the sacrifice. 
But that he himself should suggest such a thing, 
should propose to take a lady for a drive in that 
vehicle of state which he was known to abominate, 
and of his own free will go to pay calls upon his 
acquaintances, was a circumstance quite unparalleled 
in Hunt’s recollection. 

‘ Since my lady died, he hasn’t done such a thing,’ 
said Hunt to his crony, Mrs March. ‘ Law, that 
there Miss ’Mione she can wheedle him into hany- 
think, God bless her pretty face!’ 


CHAPTER VI 


Left to her own devices, Hermione followed her 
grandfather’s injunctions with scrupulous exactitude^ 
She went into the morning-room, a pleasant 
southern chamber with French windows opening 
into the flower garden, and taking the last new 
novel from Mudie’s book-box in her hands, she 
lay down on the sofa and determined to remain 
there quietly for the remainder of the morning. 

It was a lovely October morning, as October has 
been of late years in England, warmer and balmier 
than anything that June or July had brought — a 
veritable breath of summer. 

The windows were open to the ground, the muslin 
curtains fluttered in the soft air. Outside, the dahlias 
and China asters made the garden gay, whilst even a 
renewal of late roses, Gloire de Dijons, that are never 
tired of blooming, and sweet, old-fashioned monthly 
roses, hung in clusters upon the walls of the house. 

Perhaps, after all, Hermione was a little tired. For, 
in spite of the fine constitution and iron strength of 
which she had boasted, a certain languor crept over 
her as she lay upon the wide chintz-covered couch ; 
her book was not inordinately engrossing, and pre- 
62 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


63 


sently it slipped out of her hands, and her pretty 
head fell back upon the cushions ; her eyes closed, 
and without being actually asleep, she went off into a 
vague dreamland wherein Percival Green, and sweet, 
impossible castles in the air concerning that good- 
looking but impecunious young gentleman, floated 
pleasantly across her imagination. 

Suddenly she lifted up her head with a start, the 
castles in the air tumbled, as such edifices are wont to 
do, into a thousand atoms, and she became vividly 
and intensely wide awake. She had felt — even before 
she had seen — that she was no longer alone. A man 
had come quietly into the room through the open 
window ; she had not even heard his footfall across 
the close-shaven lawn ; but as his shadow darkened 
the sun-lighted window, she realised his entrance with 
every nerve of her startled being. 

She sat up hurriedly, the colour rushed in a flame 
to her face, and her eyes opened wide, not only 
with astonishment, but with something which the 
newcomer saw at once to be considerably less 
flattering. 

It was Charles Irvine. 

* I beg ten thousand pardons ! You were asleep, I 
woke you up, and I have startled you ! What an un- 
lucky fellow I am ! * 

‘ No, I was not asleep, only thinking with my eyes 
shut. It does not signify at all. But I thought you 
had gone. You should have been half-way to Dover 
by this time I ’ 


64 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


‘You seem to have kept an accurate record of my 
supposed journey/ he answered with a little vexation, 
as he took a chair near her sofa, ‘but you see, Miss 
Deverell — the fact is — important as is the duty that 
calls me abroad, there is something that seemed to 
me to be of more importance still — your health.’ 

He bent forward in his chair and looked attentively 
at her. 

‘ I am sure you are very kind/ she said drily, with a 
little flush of annoyance ; ‘ I assure you my health is 
perfectly good, I was never better or less of an invalid 
in my whole life.’ 

‘ No? Well, I am not so sure of that. Your colour 
comes and goes too quickly ; a moment ago you were 
flushed, now you have turned pale, there are blue 
marks round your eyes as if they were tired, and see, 
your hands are trembling.’ 

‘ I can send for a doctor to diagnose my symptoms, 
Mr Irvine,’ she answered with real anger. ‘There is 
no occasion for you to enumerate them.’ 

‘ Do not be angry. Miss Deverell. Cannot you 
understand that, after yesterday, I could not go 
away without knowing how you were.’ 

He spoke humbly, and Hermione was penitent. 

‘ I am afraid I am very cross and very ungrateful 
to you, Mr Irvine. I suppose I ought not to think 
you anything but kindness itself.’ 

‘ But you do ? ’ he inquired tentatively. 

‘ Oh, no, no ! ’ she cried impulsively, ‘ do not make 
me say horrid things which I should repent of. I 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


65 


know that I owe you my life ; I ought never for 
one moment to forget that, or to cease to be 
grateful’ 

‘ Do you not think it should make a bond between 
us ? ’ he asked softly ; and Hermione wished that she 
could escape from the fixed look in his eyes, that 
always, always would strike her as being so much too 
near to each other. 

‘ A bond ? ’ she repeated falteringly. ‘ Oh, no, not 
that quite, only I suppose I ought always to re- 
member that you have a claim upon me that no one 
else has got.’ 

He smiled and threw himself back in his chair. 

‘ Ah ! that is something at all events,’ he cried with 
irrepressible exultation. 

Hermione felt with vexation that she must have 
somehow committed herself; she bit her lip and 
was silent. 

‘I have a claim upon you,’ he said presently, ‘a 
claim which I will never forego. It gives me, as you 
yourself own, a position with regard to you that no 
one else can have. The life that I have saved is a 
life in which I can never cease to be interested, nor 
must you ever forget that whole years of acquaint- 
anceship could not have drawn me so near to you as 
that one great and blessed chance which was given 
to me yesterday.’ 

Now, in this speech there seemed to be, to 
Hermione’s fastidious taste, everything that was 
most presuming and most offensive, and yet, in the 

E 


66 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


face of a fact which there was no denying, the fact 
that he had saved her life at the risk of his own, she 
felt incapable of uttering a single protest, or of evinc- 
ing the faintest sign of the disapprobation which she 
inwardly experienced. She was only able to murmur 
in a low voice, — 

‘ Are you not somewhat ungenerous, Mr Irvine?’ 

‘ Perhaps,’ he answered serenely ; ‘ but you see a 
man in my position cannot afford to be generous.’ 

‘ I do not see that. I should say that no one ever 
lost ground by generosity.’ 

‘ Ah, well, I had rather not risk it myself.’ And 
then he stooped suddenly forward, and laid his hand 
caressingly upon hers, that was idly toying with the 
leaves of the book upon her lap. 

She started as though she had been stung, 
wrenched her hand away, and sprang hurriedly to 
her feet. 

‘ I suppose you have to get back, Mr Irvine,’ she 
said with nervous haste; ‘you will start, of course, 
by the afternoon train ? I ought not to detain you, 
and now the kind object of your visit is fulfilled, and 
you find that I am none the worse for my fright and 
my ducking, I ought not, I feel, to detain you a 
moment longer.’ 

‘ All of which means, I suppose, that you wish to 
send me away ? ’ 

He had not risen from his chair, but sat back 
looking up at her with his elbows upon the arms, 
and the fingers of both hands lightly pressed together. 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 67 

She stood above him, and he looked up at her with 
a somewhat singular expression on his face. 

There was something cruel in it; something that 
seemed to say to her, ‘After all, what is the use of 
resisting and struggling? I have got a hold over 
you, and I mean to keep it’ 

Of course it was only in her fancy that such a 
thought existed, yet she could not help interpreting 
his way of looking at her into some such meaning. 

‘ I wish you had allowed me to drown,’ she said 
half laughing, turning away from him, speaking im- 
pulsively out the thought that came uppermost in 
her mind. 

‘ Oh, no, dear Miss Deverell, I am sure you don’t 
wish that ! ’ he replied sweetly. ‘ You are young 
and beautiful — if you will permit me to say so — and 
you are idolised by a doting old grandfather, who 
is prepared to gratify your smallest caprice ; your 
existence is likely to be a very delightful one, besides 
which, life is sweet to everybody, and I am quite 
sure that you are at your heart exceedingly grateful 
to me for coming up in the nick of time and fishing 
you safely out of the Alien’ 

She was obliged immediately to own that she was 
grateful to him — excessively grateful. What else 
could she say? 

‘ I am sure you must want to go now,’ she ventured 
to remark again presently. 

Mr Irvine consulted his watch. ‘ No,’ he answered 
tranquilly, ‘ I am in no hurry at all, my train does not 


68 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


leave until 3.30 ; I have nothing to do at Goldsbury. 
You see, I don’t know the Sampsons well, and don’t 
care to be with them much. Will you give me some 
lunch. Miss Deverell ? ’ 

‘ I am afraid I cannot ; my grandfather has gone 
to Allhampton, and said he would not be back 
till the afternoon ; he was going to stay to lunch 
at the vicarage, I believe ; he and old Mr Reed are 
great friends, you know; when he goes into All- 
hampton he often stops for a chat.* 

‘ I am delighted to hear that he is not coming 
back. It is all the better for me. I shall enjoy 
my lunch alone with you twice as much.* 

‘ But I do not see how I can possibly ask you to 
stay if Sir Francis is out,’ objected Hermione, feeling 
as though a trap was closing about her. 

Charles Irvine only laughed. ‘ Why, it is one o’clock 
now, you cannot be so inhospitable as to turn me 
out of the house 1 I am horribly hungry, and it is 
but a small thing to ask surely, just a scrap of lunch ! 
You cannot possibly refuse a morsel of food — not to 
me at any rate ! * he added meaningly. 

She rang the bell without another word. 

‘ Tell Hunt,’ she said to the footman who answered 
the summons, ‘to bring up luncheon immediately. 
Mr Irvine will lunch here.’ 

Hermione was unspeakably wretched during the 
meal that followed. She was silent and abstracted, 
she ate very little, and could scarcely exert herself 
to be polite. And yet there she sat as hostess in 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 69 

her grandfather’s house, entertaining a man to whom 
she owed her life. 

Was this to go on always? she wondered. Was 
he to force his distasteful presence upon her for ever ? 
to order her about and coerce her into doing what 
she did not want to do — simply and solely because 
of the service he had rendered her, by reason of 
which she was powerless to treat his assumptions 
with the scorn and anger which they deserved? 

As to Charles Irvine, he talked gaily and happily, 
as though nothing was the matter, ignoring entisely 
her coldness and silence, as if he did not notice 
them. 

He was a clever talker, and presently, in spite of 
herself, Hermione began to thaw a little towards him ; 
she found herself obliged to answer him, and after a 
little while she could not help acknowledging that 
he knew how to make himself an agreeable and 
entertaining companion. As luncheon drew to a 
close, the hope of a speedy deliverance from her 
unwelcome guest made her unbend still more in her 
manner to him. 

Already Mr Irvine had desired that his horse 
might be brought round, and had risen to wish his 
hostess good-bye. 

And at that moment, as they stood close beside 
each other. Hunt re-entered the room to deliver to 
her a letter which the second post had just brought 
for her. 

As the small silver tray on which the envelope lay 


70 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


was handed to her, it was as near to one as to the 
other, and it was impossible that either should fail 
to see it distinctly. 

Hermione blushed a rosy red and her eyes shone 
with a swift and sudden happiness ; then, as she 
slipped the letter quickly into her pocket, she looked 
up in order to wish Mr Irvine good-bye. 

To her utter amazement she saw that he had 
become white as death, his very lips were ashen, 
and his eyes were full of absolute horror. 

She uttered a cry, thinking he must be ill, but he 
touched her hand limply in farewell, and without 
a word turned and left the room. 

When he got outside the door, he lifted his hand 
blindly to his head. ‘ Good God ! ’ he murmured, 
‘ it seems impossible ! And yet — I could stake my 
life on it, that it was his handwriting 1 * 


CHAPTER VII 


The December afternoon was dull and foggy, and 
the lamps had already been lighted in the large, 
shadowy drawing-room in Berkeley Square. 

Lady Catherine reclined in a deep arm-chair 
attired in an elaborate pink satin tea-gown, whilst 
her lord and master stood upon the hearth-rug 
with his back to the fire before her. 

‘The train must be very late,’ observed Richard 
Deverell, turning round to glance at the clock be- 
hind him, and then consulting his own watch. ‘ I 
can’t think what made my father select such a late 
train. He would have done much better to come by 
the 12-30.’ 

‘ Your father never does things in the best way.* 

‘ Never, poor old gentleman. He has made a 
dreadful mistake in taking up this girl, for in- 
stance.’ 

‘ Well, she is your own brother’s child, you know, 
Richard.’ 

‘ No doubt, but there was no occasion to have 
taken her to live with him. He might have made 
her a sufficient allowance, paid quarterly, and left her 
some trifle at his death. That would have been quite 

n 


72 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


enough. No doubt she did not expect anything 
more, and would have been quite satisfied, and she 
would have continued to live amongst the persons 
she was brought up with — her mother’s people.’ 

‘ She might have gone on the stage and toured 
about the provinces, disgracing the family,’ remarked 
Lady Catherine, languidly, caressing the fat pug that 
lay slumbering inertly on her lap. 

‘ At anyrate, it was wholly unnecessary to press us 
into the service. Why should the girl be foisted upon 
us, pray ? ’ 

Lady Catherine was indolent and self-indulgent, 
but she was not at all ill-natured. 

‘ It will be a great bore, no doubt,’ she replied, 
smothering a yawn, ‘ but perhaps she is a nice 
girl, and anyhow, her visit won’t last long.’ 

‘ Long enough, I fancy ! We shall get very tired 
of trotting her about to the theatres and having to 
provide amusements for her.’ 

‘ Why on earth, then, did you not tell Sir Francis 
that we could not have her when he wrote to ask 
you ? * 

‘ Because, my dear Catherine, I cannot possibly 
afford to offend my father,’ replied her husband, 
irritably. ‘The governor holds a great deal in his 
hands over and above what goes with the property, 
and is entailed upon myself. He has had a fine 
income for years, and has never spent a penny of 
it. The governor’s savings must amount to sixty 
or seventy thousand pounds, I should think ; a nice 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


73 


little sum if it were divided, as I’ve always reckoned 
upon, between our two younger boys ; but with this 
new infatuation in his head, who is to say, if we 
offend him, that he will not cut Alfred and Willie 
entirely out of his will and leave every penny he 
can lay hold of to this girl ? As it is, he is certain 
to leave her something, which will materially diminish 
our poor boys’ shares.’ 

‘ I don’t know quite what to do with her,’ mur- 
mured Lady Catherine, irrelevantly. She had not 
the sordid soul of her husband, and did not feel 
unduly excited over the imperilled fortunes of her 
younger boys. Having been born to money and 
always accustomed to abundance, the idea of poverty 
did not come much home to her. The boys would 
have ‘enough,’ she supposed; it did not trouble her 
very much. But Richard Deverell was greedy for 
money; he loved it for its own sake, and for the 
pleasure of acquiring it and keeping it. He wanted 
to have as much as he could lay hands upon for 
himself and for his sons. 

He bent forward and looked keenly into his wife’s 
handsome, stolid face. 

‘ ril tell you what you could do with her if you 
were clever, my dear,’ he said. ‘You could make 
her fall in love with the wrong man.’ 

‘ The wrong man ? ’ she repeated vaguely. 

‘ Yes, some man who would be a mesalliance^ whom 
it would make my father very angry indeed for her 
to want to marry. If he could be made to quarrel 


74 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


with her, as he quarrelled with Walter, why, then, 
he might drop her again as quickly as he took her 
up, and the danger to our own boys would be re- 
moved.’ 

Lady Catherine lifted her long tortoise shell-handled 
glasses languidly to her eyes, and surveyed her 
husband critically through them. 

‘ Dear me, Richard,’ she remarked quietly, ‘ you 
grow quite melodramatic ! What a sensational idea ! 
So I am to encourage some detrimental young man 
to run away with your niece in order to make your 
grandfather angry with her ! How very funny ! ’ 

Now, when his wife said ‘ How very funny ! ’ in that 
tone of voice, Richard Deverell knew perfectly well 
that it was equivalent to an expression of total 
disapproval on her part. 

Lady Catherine never got angry or indignant ; she 
never excited herself in any way ; she was consti- 
tutionally incapable of excitement in the first place> 
and moreover, she had a deeply-rooted conviction 
that to lose one’s temper or display emotion of 
any kind was underbred. Yet, sometimes a mild 
surprise at her husband’s ideas and actions did 
arouse in her a certain sensation of disapprobation, 
and when she put up her glasses at him and lifted 
her eyebrows, and said ‘ How very funny ! ’ Richard 
Deverell knew perfectly well that the thought in her 
heart was, ‘ How very horrible T 

He reddened angrily. 

*Ah, well, I see you won’t help me, not even for 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


75 

the sake of your own children, so I suppose it’s no 
use asking you.’ 

‘ I certainly shall not exert myself to find lovers 
for your niece, ineligible or otherwise,’ she answered 
quietly. ‘ You know, my dear, that I never exert 
myself If there is anything of that kind to be 
done, you had better do it yourself’ 

A cab with luggage drew up at the door, and 
Richard Deverell hastened downstairs to meet his 
father and his unknown niece. For, although it was 
now six weeks since Hermione had first come to 
Deverell Place, her uncle had not yet seen her. His 
father had frequently urged him to come down and 
make her acquaintance, but Richard had pleaded 
business and pleasure engagements, and had always 
refused to do so. The fact of the matter being that 
he bitterly resented his father’s action in the matter 
of Hermione. 

He should have been consulted first as to giving 
her a home, he considered, and Sir Francis should 
have abided by his advice. Richard’s advice would 
certainly have been that the Deverell family should 
wash its hands altogether of his dead brother’s 
orphan child, so that it was as well for Hermione 
that she had taken matters into her own hands, and 
had come without any warning to cast herself upon 
her grandfather’s love and protection. 

He was not, however, without curiosity to see this 
girl who, by some witchery or other, had apparently 
wound herself into the old man’s heart and life, and 


76 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


when Sir Francis wrote at last, and asked him 
point-blank whether he and his wife would not 
invite Hermione to spend a fortnight with them 
in town, so that she might see a little of London 
and its sights, he wrote back by return of post and 
acceded to the request. 

Sir Francis insisted upon bringing her up him- 
self, and was to remain one night in Berkeley 
Square. 

The house being his own, and only lent to his 
son, he had a right to be in it occasionally ; and it 
was for this reason that his son could not possibly 
make any objection, when as they were sitting to- 
gether in the drawing-room having tea, after their 
somewhat cold journey. Sir Francis said suddenly to 
him and to his wife, — 

‘ By the way, I hope, my dear boy, and you too, 
Ka,te, that you will not think I have taken a great 
liberty; but I had a telegram this morning from 
Charles Irvine ; he arrived in England to-day and 
wanted to run down to Southshire to speak to me 
about his poor uncle’s affairs, so, as J was coming to 
London, I sent him back a telegram to meet me here 
this evening instead, and I ventured to say that I was 
sure you would give him some dinner at eight o’clock. 
I hope it will not put you out, Kate? * 

Hermione, who was sipping her tea silently by the 
fireside, set her cup down rather suddenly on the 
table by her side. It was the first word she had 
heard of Charles Irvine for a long time. She had 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


77 


not seen him since the day he had forced his society 
upon her at luncheon ; and as he had been abroad 
ever since, she had cherished a delusive hope that 
she would not be^ troubled with him any more. 

‘ There is plenty of dinner, papa,’ answered Lady 
Catherine, unconcernedly, ‘ at least I suppose so. 
Gregory showed me the menu just now. I think 
there was a saddle of mutton and some pheasants.’ 

‘ Well, we .sha’n’t starve ! ’ laughed the old gentle- 
man, pleasantly, ‘ even if Charles has brought home 
a tremendous appetite ; I should think he would 
appreciate a good bit of English mutton after all 
those foreign kickshaws.’ 

‘He has given up the Bar, I suppose?’ remarked 
his son. 

‘Yes, entirely. You see everything is left to him, 
excepting just the girls’ portions, which, if they die 
unmarried, revert again to the estate. And the 
Sampsons vacate Goldsbury at once — next week, I 
believe ; they are turning out a month earlier in 
order to oblige him — for of course he must come 
and live there — and marry and settle down,’ he 
added, with a sort of side glance at Hermione, 
which did not escape his son’s notice. 

‘So, that is your little game, is it?’ thought that 
astute gentleman to himself. 

‘ We shall find him a delightful neighbour, shall we 
not, Minnie ? ’ continued the old man, turning to his 
grand-daughter. 

‘ I hardly know — Mr Irvine is almost a stranger 


78 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


to me/ answered Hermione, a little coldly. To hear 
that she was to meet him at dinner to-night — the 
very first evening of her London visit, struck a 
chill to her heart; there was something that she 
feared about Charles Irvine. 

‘ I shall not enjoy my visit/ she thought ; ‘ it is a 
bad omen that that man should cOme here the very 
first day.' 

‘ She does not like him/ thought Richard Deverell, 
who was watching her. 

The old man was laughing merrily. 

‘Just listen to that cold, proud monkey of mine!' 
he cried, turning to his daughter-in-law. ‘ Why, she 
made a conquest of Charles the very first moment 
she set eyes upon him, and you know, too, that he 
saved her life, and fished her out of the river, as I 
wrote to tell you.’ 

‘Oh, dear grandpapa!’ interrupted Hermione, 
almost with irritation, ‘ do please let that old story 
alone ; you can’t think how tired I am of being told 
that I owe my life to Mr Irvine/ she added, turning 
apologetically to Lady Catherine, 

‘ Suppose then, my dear, we come upstairs and 
dress for dinner?’ said her new aunt, not without 
tact. ‘ I am sure you must be tired after your 
journey, and ) ou will like to rest a little, I daresay, 
before dressing,’ and she led the way upstairs. 

’ ‘What do you think of her?’ asked Sir Francis 
eagerly of his son the moment the door had closed 
upon the ladies. ‘ Isn’t she a beauty ? Such grace, 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


79 


su£h style, such eyes ! She looks a thoroughbred 
Deverell, every inch of her, doesn’t she?’ 

‘ And yet,’ replied his son, coldly, ‘ she is not a bit 
like poor Walter, and if I remember the lady rightly, 
having only seen her once, she closely resembles Miss 
Nellie Barker, the actress — her mother.’ 

Then Sir Francis Deverell made the most amazing 
and astonishing remark that his son had ever heard 
fail from his lips. 

‘ Then,’ he answered stoutly, rising from his chair 
with a little more colour than usual in his grey and 
wrinkled old face, ‘ then, all I can say is, that she 
resembles a lady who must have been exceedingly 
good-looking, and who succeeded in bringing up her 
daughter most excellently and admirably ; and what 
is more, if the mother was like Hermione, I am not 
in the least surprised that poor Walter thought the 
world well lost for love of her.’ 

Here was a transformation ! Richard uttered a 
low whistle below his breath, he was absolutely 
incapable of saying a word ! This girl must be a 
witch indeed ! Why, only three months ago, the 
barest and most distant allusion to the actress wife 
who had severed poor Walter from his father’s 
house had been sufficient to send Sir Francis into 
a paroxysm of rage, and now, here he was standing 
up for her and crying her praises ! 

Things were looking black indeed for those 
legacies for Alfred and Willie ! 

Hermione’s maid had laid out one of her prettiest 


So 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


dresses upon the bed ; she felt herself unable to give 
any reason why she should not put it on, and yet 
she heartily wished she might have looked her 
worst instead of her best on this particular evening. 
For every pretty woman has her worst as well as 
her best, and an unbecoming fit or colour is often 
enough to spoil the most undeniable beauty. 

However, she donned the half-mourning gown of 
pale diaphanous grey in silence, and waited until 
the very last minute before going downstairs, lest 
by any untoward accident she might find herself 
alone for a moment with the expected guest. 

The drawing-room, however, was occupied when 
she got to it by the three gentlemen of the party. 
Her heart beat a little as she entered the room, but 
she said to herself bravely as she crossed the 
threshold, — 

‘ How foolish I am ! he must have met dozens of 
women abroad far prettier and cleverer than I am. 
I daresay he has forgotten all about me by this 
time.’ 

But he had not forgotten her. The very first 
glance she cast at him as he hastened across the 
room to greet her, showed her that he had not 
forgotten her in the least. 

Charles Irvine had that look in his eyes which 
sa} s to a woman plainer than any words, ‘ You are 
lovely, and I adore you,’ which is very delightful, 
of course, when a woman is attracted in her turn to 
the man who looks the sentiment ; but is repugnant 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


81 


to the last degree to her who only turns away with 
a shudder of revulsion from a man she is more in- 
clined to hate than to love. 

When he was seated beside her at dinner, Irvine 
said to her in a low, meaning voice, — 

‘ Have you been riding since?’ 

‘Yes, often,’ she replied in a clear, matter-of-fact 
voice ; ‘ I have a very nice little chestnut horse which 
grandpapa bought for me ; he is absolutely quiet, and 
his paces are perfect.’ 

‘Ah!’ he murmured back sentimentally, ‘no more 
accidents then I How I have blessed my luck day 
and night since the eventful day when I was the 
happy instrument of saving that dear and precious 
life!’ 

She turned her head away with a gesture of 
annoyance. 

He bent nearer to her and almost whispered, — 

‘ It has made a bond between us, has it not, for 
ever?’ and then Hermione felt that she detested 
him. 


F 


CHAPTER VIII 


‘ It is really the most provoking thing in the world,’ 
said Lady Catherine, with an amount of agitation 
very seldom displayed by her. 

Her husband looked up from his newspaper across 
the breakfast-table. 

It was the third morning after Hermione’s arrival 
at Berkeley Square. 

‘What has happened to disturb you, Kate?’ he 
inquired. 

‘Why, Celestine complains of pains all over her. 
She has certainly got the influenza, and I have told 
Gregory she had better be sent to her home at once, 
in a four-wheel cab, before she. gets worse.’ 

‘ Well, it is very tiresome for you to be deprived of 
your maid ; but cannot Jane, the upper housemaid, 
wait upon you for a few days, till Celestine recovers ?’ 

‘ Oh, perfectly, she has waited on me before very 
nicely. Oh, it is not that that troubles me, it is my 
darling Fudgy.’ Now, Fudgy was the pet name — 
derived from Fidele — of Lady Catherine’s pug. 

‘ There is nobody,’ continued Lady Catherine, 
pathetically, ‘ nobody else in the whole house whom 
I can trust to take out Fudgy for his morning’s walk ! 

82 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 83 

I have no confidence in anybody but Celestine. What 
on earth is to be done ! * 

‘Do you never take him out for a walk yourself?* 
inquired Hermione, who had been eating her break- 
fast silently between her uncle and aunt. 

‘ I, my dear ? ’ exclaimed her aunt ; ‘ why, I cannot 
walk a yard ! I never could ; walking disagrees with 
me ; and dear Fudgy requires a good run every day 
in the park.* 

‘ Will you trust Fudgy to me, Aunt Catherine ? I 
shall be delighted to take him out He is quite fond 
of me, and I will take the greatest care of him.* 

‘ Well, my dear, I really don’t know whether I 
ought to let you go out by yourself in London, and I 
can’t spare one of the maids to walk with you, but 
certainly it would be very good of you — only, would 
it be quite proper ? * 

‘ Oh, aunt ! * laughed Hermione, gaily, ‘ I have been 
accustomed to go about alone everywhere all my life. 
I am quite used to taking care of myself, and it is 
such a very little way to the Green Park. I can go 
there quite easily. I should really like it, aunt. It 
will do me good to have a walk, as well as Fudgy.’ 

‘ Well, it is very good of you, Hermione, I am 
sure, and, of course, it would take a great weight off 
my mind, for I do feel that I could trust him to you, 
and if your uncle doesn’t disapprove of your going 
out alone — * 

‘ I don’t disapprove at all, certainly not. Why 
should not Hermione go out alone? It will do her 


84 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


good to have the exercise, and, as she says, she was 
always accustomed to take care of herself till she 
went to live at Deverell Place ; ’ and at the bottom 
of his heart Mr Deverell said to himself, ‘ And if she 
does get into some scrape or other in consequence, so 
much the better for us ! * 

That was how it came about that Hermione was 
to be found every morning walking by herself in the 
Green Park or in St James’s Park, with Fudgy dis- 
porting himself on the grass in front of her. 

For several days these walks were perfectly un- 
eventful. She remained out about an hour, and she 
grew to value the liberty and the freedom which her 
daily solitary outing brought to her. 

It gave her a quiet Time to herself. She could 
think and she could look at the greatest treasure she 
possessed on earth — Percival Green’s last letter to 
her. It was the letter she had received from him on 
the day that Charles Irvine had lunched with her, and 
which had occasioned such an extraordinary display 
of agitation on his part. Upon that point she had 
not dwelt very much. She had noticed at the time 
that he had looked white and ill, as though for a 
moment he had been going to faint ; but she did not 
connect the fact with the letter in her hand, which, 
truth to say, had occupied her thoughts so much that 
she had speedily forgotten Mr Charles Irvine and his 
unwelcome presence. For that letter had been an 
unspeakable comfort to her. True, it professed to be 
the last and only one he should ever send to her \ 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


85 


true, that it bade her an eternal farewell, and told 
her to forget him and be happy, but still every line 
breathed so great and unalterable a tenderness to 
herself, and he thanked her so humbly and so grate- 
fully for her past love and kindness to him, that it 
took all the sting and bitterness away from their 
parting. 

‘You know,’ he wrote, ‘that I can never forget you, 
and never love another woman but you, and if I 
seemed to reject your love it was because I could not 
accept the sacrifice which in your goodness you were 
prepared to make for me; not because I was in- 
sensible of it, but because it would not have been 
right that I should take it, for to do so would mean 
dishonour. Some day, perhaps, you may know all 
my story and understand me, but long before that 
day comes, I trust and pray that you will have — if 
not forgotten me — at all events conquered your 
affection for me, and have found some honourable 
and upright man who has no secret in his past, and 
who is able to woo you openly and bravely before 
the eyes of the world.’ 

Over and over again, a thousand times had 
Hermione read these words, and wept over them, and 
pressed them to her lips. She carried the letter 
always with her, folded in a little silk bag that hung 
by a gold chain about her neck, and as she walked by 
herself in the park on these December mornings she 
would often take it out and read again the dear and 
precious words. 


86 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


One morning it was cold and frosty, and Hermione 
had put on a smart little sealskin jacket — her grand- 
father’s last present to her — and a black velvet hat 
with black feathers in it ; the frosty air had flushed 
her face very becomingly, and altogether she looked 
a far too well turned out and too pretty a young 
lady to be walking quite by herself in a London 
park. 

She had just put back her treasured letter into its 
covering and slipped it under her dress, when, looking 
up, she perceived a young man with drooping figure 
and a bent head just before her in the same path as 
herself. 

Her heart stood still for one moment, then began 
to beat wildly and tumultuously. She ran impul- 
sively forward. 

‘ Percival ! ’ 

He stopped and turned. It was indeed Percival 
Green, but he was altered and changed beyond belief 
Never had Hermione received such a shock in her life 
as she did at the sight of him. 

When she had last seen him he had been a fine, 
upright, stalwart young fellow — now he was a feeble 
and decrepit invalid ; his face was pale and thin, his 
eyes hollow, his whole figure shrunken and gaunt — 
he was but a faint shadow of his former self At her 
cry he turned round, and on seeing her close behind 
him, a wave of colour flooded his pale face for a 
moment, and then died away again quickly, leaving 
him whiter and more wan than before. 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


87 


She grasped his hands in hers. 

‘ Percival ! " she said in a shocked voice, ‘ how dread- 
fully ill you look ! I never saw anyone so altered 
in my life! For heaven’s sake tell me what has 
been the matter ? ’ 

‘ I have been ill, very ill,’ he answered. * I had a 
great shock soon after we parted, and it made me 
very ill.* 

‘ A shock ? What was it ? ’ 

‘ I heard of my father’s sudden death.’ 

‘ I never knew you had a father alive. I always 
fancied you had no family, that you were alone in 
the world.’ 

‘ I have been alone in the world, but my father was 
still alive, only he had quarrelled with me, and it was 
the hope of my life to be reconciled to him. That 
is where the bitterness of it lies ! he can never know, 
never understand how I have longed to be restored 
to his heart and forgiven, and now it is too late,’ he 
added mournfully and with the deepest dejection. 

Those dreadful words ‘ too late,’ what a barrier 
they set upon all human desires and aspirations I 
How unutterable is the sadness — how impenetrable 
the gloom of them ! There is nothing that can be 
said in answer to them. Words of consolation found 
no utterance upon Hermione’s lips, she could only 
look at him with sorrow and sympathy in her 
eyes. 

‘ And then I fell ill,’ he continued presently ; ‘ it all 
came upon me together — his death happened soon 


88 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


after my parting with you. It was at Southampton, 
where I had gone back to join the Company after 
leaving you, that one day I saw the news in the 
paper. I was simply stunned ; I could not act that 
night ; before morning I was in a high fever ; for 
days after I was delirious. I think/ he added sadly, 
‘ it is a great pity that I did not die ; it would have 
been better for me to have died there at once, than 
to get better in order to perish by inches.’ 

‘ Percival ! ’ exclaimed Hermione, ‘what can you 
mean ? You terrify me ! Ah ! ’ she cried sharply, as 
a sudden and awful idea came into her mind, ‘ who is 
taking care of you ? Where are you living ? What 
are you doing ? ’ 

She looked him over from head to foot ; his thin, 
shabby coat was buttoned across his chest and an old 
woollen handkerchief was wound round his neck ; his 
cuffs were frayed and not quite clean ; he looked — 
not only very poor, out-at-elbows, out of work — he 
looked starved ! 

Her heart turned cold as a stone. ‘ What are you 
doing ? ’ she asked breathlessly. 

‘ I am doing nothing.’ 

‘ Are you not acting still with the Company ? ’ 

‘ No; I lost my engagement. They could not wait 
for me. I was ill so long that they went away, and 
my place is filled up.’ 

‘ If my mother had been alive it would not have 
happened ; they should not have abandoned you ! ’ 
she said brokenly and indignantly. 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 89 

‘No, very likely not. She was a good friend to 
me, always.’ 

‘ Who nursed you there ? What money had 
you?’ 

‘ The woman of the lodging I was in. There was 
a doctor, too, of course ; sometimes he came three 
times a day. I had to sell everything I possessed to 
pay them both. I have just managed to get up to 
London. I am going to try and get some employ- 
ment. I am not proud, I will do anything ; but even 
for the humblest post there are so many applicants, 
and honest work is hard to get’ 

Then she drew near him and laid her trembling 
hand upon his coat sleeve. 

‘ Percival,’ she said, in a low, awe-stricken whisper, 
‘ have you — have you had any breakfast ? ’ 

A shadow of his former merry smile crossed the 
young man’s shrunken face. 

‘ You ask too many questions, dear little woman !’ 

‘Oh, but this is terrible ! And where do you live? 
Where did you sleep last night ? ’ 

He turned round. Behind them, beneath the leaf- 
less row of trees, there was a bench, a hard, wooden 
bench, powdered whitely with the rime of the morn- 
ing frost He looked at it silently ; then their eyes 
met, and she understood. Her question was 
answered. 

She burst into a flood of passionate tears. 

‘ Oh, my dear, don’t ! don’t ! ’ he said, catching 
hold of her hands. ‘Don’t cry, Hermione. What 


90 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


does it matter? Don’t mind about it; I can bear it 
very well.’ 

‘Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?’ she 
sobbed. Then lifting her tear-stained face to his, 
she cried eagerly, ‘You must come back with me 
to Berkeley Square to my uncle’s house. I must 
tell them all. They will be kind to you and help 
you.’ 

He shook his head. 

‘ No, I cannot do that, Hermione. I cannot beg 
for food and shelter. Poor and destitute as I am, I 
cannot beg.’ 

‘ Then take help from me ! ’ she cried, pulling out 
her purse. ‘ For God’s sake let me help you ! ’ 

He pushed away her hands gently, but firmly. 

‘ No, my dear, not even from you.’ 

‘But what will become of you? You will die. 
Oh, my God, you will die of want ! ’ 

‘ I often wish that I could die. But men who have 
nothing left to live for do not, unluckily, die so easily. 
Dear Hermione, do not be so distressed. I am going 
now after some work. I have seen an advertisement 
in a new literary magazine about some old memoirs 
that I once read. I can at anyrate write like an 
educated man, and I have scribbled an article here ’ 
— and he showed her a roll of papers in his coat 
pocket — ‘ which contains the information on the sub- 
ject that they have been inqiiiritv?’ advertising 
for, and which 1 Happen to Oe able to give, t think 
the editor will take it, and if he takes that, he may 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


91 


take other work from me, so, you see, I shall not be 
starving long. And now, my dear girl, you must let 
me go. People are beginning to stare at us, and to 
wonder what a smart, fashionable young lady can 
have to say to a poor, shabby pauper like myself. 
Go back to your uncle’s house, dear little friend.’ 

‘ But I must know what becomes of you ; I must 
hear from you. It will be torture for me not to know 
how you are ! Will you not write to me ? ’ 

‘ I think not. It would not be right, I think. Your 
grandfather might not be pleased. Hermione,’ and 
he fixed his sad, hollow eyes upon her, ‘ if you were 
never to hear my name or see my face again, it would 
be better for you.’ 

* Oh, no, no ! ’ she cried passionately ; ‘ do not say 
that. If — if we can be nothing to each other in the 
future, at least let us be friends for the sake of the 
past, for the sake of the love you once professed to 
me, and for the sake of my dear mother, who was 
fond of you. Remain my friend ; at anyrate, let me 
know that you are alive.’ 

‘ I cannot refuse when you appeal to me in that * 
way,’ he answered, after a moment’s reflection. ‘ Your 
mother, sweet soul in heaven !’ — and he lifted his hat 
for an instant with a movement of pathetic reverence 
for her who was dead — ‘ your mother believed in me. 
She trusted you to my care on her deathbed, and 
bade me see you safely to your grandfather’s house. 

I do not think she would blame me for accepting the 
hand of friendship which you hold out to me in my 


92 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


misery and destitution. I will not write to you, 
Hermione, it might bring you into trouble, but I will 
meet you here again on the third morning from this 
at the same hour, and tell you how things have gone 
with me. Can you be here ? ’ 

‘Yes, if I am alive I will be here.’ 

‘ Then wish me good-bye, my dear.’ 

She placed her hand obediently into his, and he 
grasped it closely, and so in silence they turned from * 
each other and parted. 

It was bad luck, perhaps, for Hermione that this 
silent parting should have been witnessed with as- 
tonishment, not unmingled with delight, by no less 
a person than her uncle, Richard Deverell. Mr 
Deverell was walking across the park to West- 
minster, having business to transact with a well- 
known firm in Great George Street, when his attention 
was attracted by the very graceful figure of a well- 
dressed young lady in front of him, who, upon a 
nearer approach, he perceived to be his own niece. 
That Hermione should be standing still in deep and 
familiar discourse with a beggar — for such her com- 
panion appeared to be — filled him with surprise and 
curiosity. The beggar’s back was turned to him, so 
the threadbare clothes were all he was able to observe. 
He saw, however, that the pair shook hands cling- 
ingly and lovingly, and then the man hurried away 
towards Piccadilly, and the girl came back quickly, 
followed by the gambolling and delighted Fudgy, 
towards himself. When she was quite close she 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


93 


looked up suddenly and beheld her uncle, and a 
scarlet flush of conscious guilt flooded her face. 

Of course, he must have seen her; and equally, of 
course, she would be questioned and scolded. 

To her astonishment, nothing of the sort happened. 
Mr Deverell lifted his hat pleasantly, asked if she 
had enjoyed her walk, and recommended her to go 
home quickly to her aunt, who^wanted her to write 
some notes for her. 

‘ He could not have seen us ! ’ thought Hermione, 
as she hurried away. ‘ It seems almost miraculous, 
but evidently he did not.' 

On his part Mr Deverell was saying, — 

‘ It would never have done to say what I had seen. 
I must wait and watch that ) oung lady carefully. 
I was quite right Bad blood will out!* 


CHAPTER IX 


Percival Green was by no means so confident 
that his article would be accepted by the editor of 
the magazine for which he had written it as he had 
professed to Hermione to be. As a matter of fact, 
he was very desponding indeed. Illness and penury 
pull a man’s pluck down to an inconceivable degree, 
and Percival had had a bad time of it lately, and a 
hard fight to keep body and soul together. Some 
men in his position would have given way to utter 
despair, and might have ended a life that seemed to 
have become too bitterly unendurable in the cold 
waters of the Thames. 

But Percival was not of the nature of which suicides 
are made. Life had been against him almost always, 
but he had never thought of putting an end to it. 
Always, on the contrary, he had set to himself the 
well-nigh impossible task of conquering his fate and 
of overcoming the apparently insuperable difficulties 
which hemmed him in on every side. Sometimes he 
even told himself that it was decreed that he should 
not die until he had accomplished the desire of his 
heart. 

He had led a very unhappy life. 

94 




A DIFFICULT MATTER 


95 


There had only been in his whole existence one 
ray of sunshine, one brief period of unalloyed happi- 
ness, and that was the time when he had been thrown, 
by the chances of the profession into which he had 
somehow drifted, into the society of Mrs Walter 
Deverell and her daughter. Mrs Walter had re- 
cognised the good in him at once, and had loved 
him almost as a son ; she had encouraged his 
dawming love for her child, in the firm belief that 
Hermione would be happy, even in poverty, as his 
wife. But her illness and impending death changed 
her views. She had perceived that, bereft of her 
mother and of the comforts with which her own talent 
and success had enabled her to surround her daughter, 
Hermione would be left destitute, and that young 
Green, though clever and devoted, was not in a 
sufficiently secure position to encumber himself with 
a wife. It was therefore her dying wish that although 
the engagement between them might tacitly exist 
until better times, Hermione should at once claim 
the protection and support of her father’s family. 

To Percival Green this decision of hers, wise though 
it was, made all the difference in the world. Hermione 
poor, the child of a woman who like himself worked 
hard for her daily bread, was within his reach ; but 
Hermione transfigured into Miss Deverell of Deverell 
Place was a totally different person, and the young 
man realised at once that he ought no longer to claim 
from her the fulfilment of her girlish promises to him. 

So he gave her up, as has been seen, as soon as he 


96 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


had fulfilled her mother’s directions and had escorted 
her to Southshire, believing that in so doing he was 
but acting as a gentleman and as a man of honour 
should do. 

There were other circumstances too which had 
combined to make him resign her. Until Mrs 
Deverell lay on her deathbed, he had known nothing 
of her previous history, nor even if the name she was 
called by was real or assumed. It was only in the 
course of a long, private conversation with her during 
her last illness that he discovered who were her 
husband’s people, and from what part of the country 
she had come. 

And in Southshire, Percival Green could never 
show his face. 

How, then, could he possibly aspire to the hand 
of Sir Francis Deverell’s grand-daughter? Now, 
indeed, he had fallen lower still, and the gulf be- 
twixt him and her was wider and deeper than ever. 

As he walked slowly and feebly along Piccadilly 
towards the Strand, he felt morally and physically 
weaker than he ever remembered to have done in 
his life before. A few pence were all that he 
possessed, and presently he turned into a baker’s 
shop and purchased a roll and a glass of milk. 

Somewhat strengthened and refreshed by this 
humble fare, he came out of the shop, and was 
pursuing his way along Piccadilly, when all at once 
amongst the pedestrians who crowded the footway 
and who went by him — a long, endless procession of 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


97 


strange and uninteresting faces — he saw one that 
differed from all the others, for it was a face that he 
knew ! 

A lady, dressed very quietly in deep mourning. 
She had still the remains of great beauty, but she was 
not very young; she was getting out of a hansom 
cab, and was about to cross the pavement towards 
a draper’s shop. She had just paid the cabman his 
fare, and was turning round when Percival Green 
walked up to her and spoke her name. 

* Laura ! ’ he said. The lady turned round with 
a violent start, and the parcels with which she was 
encumbered dropped on to the pavement. 

He stooped down with a half apology to pick them 
up, and when he looked up at her again he saw that 
she was staring at him with a face of horror. 

‘ You look frightened of me, Laura,’ he said gently. 

‘ Good heavens,’ she ejaculated, ‘ we believed you 
were dead! Is it really you, Val? Or is it your 
ghost? You look as if you had come out of your 
grave.’ 

‘Well, I’ve come out of the jaws of death, anyhow,’ 
he answered, ‘ but I am not a spirit. I am flesh and 
blood ; if you want to be certain of it — then, for 
God’s sake give me something to eat, I am nearly 
starved ; can’t you take me somewhere and give me 
some food ? ’ 

She turned quickly and beckoned back the 
hansom she had just sent away, and they both 
got into it 


O 


98 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


‘My poor Val!* she murmured brokenly, her 
voice suffocated by tears, ‘ this is too terrible ! ' 

‘ I had better have been dead, had I not ? ’ he 
said bitterly. ‘ Where are you taking me to, Laura ? 
This is rather rash, isn’t it? You must not be seen 
with me, you know.’ 

‘ I am taking you to our lodgings near Portman 
Square.’ 

‘ Who is “ our ” ? ’ he asked sharply. 

‘Annie and I. Oh, not, not — him!' she added 
quickly. 

They hardly spoke again till they reached the 
house. 

‘ I had better not come in after all,’ he said 
hesitatingly. ‘ Give me some food to take away 
with me, and I will wait outside — there is Annie.’ 

‘Annie has gone to Windsor for the day to see 
our old governess — Miss Grimes, you know — I am 
quite alone to-day.’ 

‘ Are you quite sure ? and no one will come, no 
,one that signifies?’ 

She reassured him on this point, and he followed 
her into the house. 

Laura Irvine led him into a room on the ground 
floor and placed him in an arm-chair. Then she 
went out, and presently returned, bearing a tray, 
which she set before him. Cold beef and bread 
and cheese, some cake and a bottle of claret. He 
watched her proceedings with hungry eyes, and at 
a sign from her he began to eat. The penny roU 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


99 


had not evidently done much towards keeping hunger 
at bay, for he ate ravenously, as one who has not 
had a good meal for days. 

Laura sat by watching him with tearful eyes. She 
was a pale and faded woman, with lines of care and 
unhappiness upon a face that once had been supremely 
lovely and fascinating, and that still bore the traces 
of a past charm. 

* Oh, if mother could see you now ! ’ she murmured 
once below her breath, adding immediately, ‘Thank 
God she cannot ! thank God she is dead ! ’ 

When he had finished, he pushed away the plate 
and turned towards her. 

‘ Thank you ; that has done me good, and put some 
life into me. Now I must go.’ 

‘No, no, not yet — oh, my dear Val, tell me some- 
thing about yourself. How have you lived all these 
years ? ’ 

‘ Honestly, at any rate, though I daresay somebody 
we know would be ready to swear that I must have 
lived by picking and stealing.’ 

‘ Oh, Val, why should he?* 

‘ He is clever enough to swear to anything. But, 
Laura, how is it that you are living with Annie, and 
not with him ? Are you not his wife?’ 

She drooped her head like a broken flower, and 
bowed it down upon the table — a smothered sob 
broke from her, but not a single word. 

Percival laid his hand not over gently upon her 
arm and shook her. 


100 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


* Speak,’ he said hoarsely ; ‘ did he not own you ? 
If he was secretly married to you, did he not do you 
justice when there was nothing more to fear? Can’t 
you speak, Laura? Where is he?’ 

She shook her head. ‘I. do not know !’ she mur- 
mured. 

‘ Do you mean ? ah ! I cannot understand — explain 
to me at once. Do you not see him then ? ’ 

‘Oh, often, often — he came to Vienna at once 
when poor father died. He has been kindness itself 
to us both — he professes the greatest affection to 
me.’ 

‘ What kind of affection ? ’ 

‘ The affection of a cousin ! ’ 

‘ Good heavens, but you are his wife ! * 

‘ He says not’ 

Percival sprang to his feet furiously. 

‘What comedy is this? Has he wronged you? 
Has he deserted you? Confess the truth at once.’ 

‘ Don’t be so angry, Val, please, please. It must 
sound dreadful to you, I know, but I don’t suppose he 
could help it ; there was some mistake about the 
marriage — it seems that it was not legal. The clergy- 
man turned out to be no clergyman at all — of course 
Charles did not know it at the time, but afterwards it 
came out ; he was an escaped convict, I believe, who 
was disguised as a clergyman, and he was arrested 
and taken back to Portland.’ 

‘Good heavens, but surely Charles did not sit down 
and do nothing under such an infamy ? Why did he 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


lOI 


not have the ceremony performed over again at once, 
and without delay ? * 

* Oh, Val, you mustn’t blame him too much. You 
see, Charles had no income, and he could not really 
support a wife, and so — after you — had gone — you 
know, and he found out this about our marriage, 
he thought it would be wiser to put it off until things 
got better, and to say nothing about that marriage 
that was no marriage according to law. But he 
promised me faithfully that he would marry me 
openly as soon as ever he could, if I would wait and 
say nothing, and so I have waited — ’ 

* For seven years.’ 

‘ Yes, it has been long — seven years,’ she mur- 
mured mournfully. 

Percival sank back into his chair, and clenched his 
hands together. 

‘ And it is for this that I have been sacrificed,’ he 
cried in a voice of mournful intensity ; ‘ for this that 
I am an outcast — nameless, homeless and hopeless ! 
for this that my father has died without forgiving me, 
and that my inheritance has been given to the 
scoundrel who has ruined me.’ 

‘Oh, dear, dear Val,’ she cried, weeping ; she flung 
herself down by his chair and wound her arms round 
his neck ; ‘ do you suppose that I have not reproached 
myself a thousand times? that I have not suffered 
agonies of remorse on your account ? and when you 
consented to bear the blame of his sin — to save yuor 
sister’s lover — ’ 


102 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


‘ It was to save your husband, Laura ! Had I not 
believed him to be that, do you think I would have 
done it ? But when it came to be a choice between 
the two — either that I should vanish, unpardoned and 
disgraced, and yet, because I was my father’s son, 
untouched by the laws of my country — or that he, 
to whom he would have shown no such leniency, 
should be tried for forgery and condemned to a 
felon’s cell — he whom I believed to have just become 
the adored husband of my favourite sister, why, what 
man with the heart of a man could have behaved 
otherwise? And if he had made you happy — if he 
had been good to you — even now I would not regret 
the choice I made, but he has disowned and repudi- 
ated you.’ 

‘ He has promised that he will marry me now.’ 

‘ Ought I to spare him any longer ? ’ he went on 
desperately. ‘ Ought I to endure this shame, this life 
that is no better than death ? You know, I have the 
letters, his own letters, by which I could condemn 
him to-morrow, and you were a witness of his guilt’ 

And then the wretched woman cast herself on his 
breast and clung to him, sobbing. 

‘ Oh, do not ruin him, he will marry me at once, as 
soon as it is decent, after our father’s death. He 
has sworn it to me ! Oh, Val, darling Val, it is 
all such an old story now, do not rake it all up 
again and ruin him, and kill me ! You have got used 
to it, and people have forgotten it, they think you are 
dead. You have changed your name — nobody knows 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


103 


— but his life is just beginning — he has everything to 
lose ; there is his old mother, too, who worships him ; 
it would kill her, and he would never marry me, never, 
never, if he were to be found out now, and I should be 
a ruined woman to my dying day ! ’ 

He looked at her sadly and fixedly. Now, by the 
light of time and suffering, he saw the unspeakable 
selfishness of this once spoilt and idolised younger 
daughter of a doting family, who had been the beauty, 
the pet, the darling, to whom everybody had given 
way, and who sooner than bear the trouble which fate 
had laid upon her, had taken the sacrifice of her only 
brother’s whole life and future, in order to save the 
man with whom she had fallen passionately and wildly 
in love. 

Her beauty was dimmed and faded now, and her 
soul, in the bareness of its unloveliness, lay exposed 
before him, and yet, somehow, the fascination of her 
past charm still held him, in some fashion, in the same 
chains as of old. 

‘You love him, then, still, Lollie?’ he asked softly ; 
‘in spite of everything he has done, you love him?’ 

‘ More than my very life ! ’ she answered passion- 
ately and earnest. 

Then he got up slowly, and took his shabby hat 
from off the table. 

‘ Good-bye, my girl, then. If even now he will do 
his duty to you, and make of you a happy wife, I for 
my part will stick to the old bargain, and you shall 
hear of your brother no more.’ 


CHAPTER X 


A FASHIONABLE play was going on at St James’s 
Theatre, and the house was filled by a smart and 
well-dressed audience. 

Up in one of the boxes, Hermione Deverell, 
charmingly arrayed in a white dress with black 
ribbons, with a row of pearls round her slender throat, 
and a diamond star in her hair, sat between her 
uncle and aunt 

She was perfectly entranced by the play. The 
hero of the piece, a good-looking and very popular 
actor, was going through his great scene with the 
villain. Hermione hung breathlessly upon every 
word ; she leant a little forward over the edge of 
the box, and her fair head shone in the white gleam 
of the electric lights. 

The drama had a deep fascination for her. All 
her early associations were connected with the 
stage, and her keenest sympathies were awakened 
and intensified by it. An'd to see a play in London 
at a first-class West-End theatre, where everything 
in the mounting was perfection, and all the scenery 
and stage accessories without a flaw ; a play, too, 
where each part, however small, was filled by an 
104 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


105 

actor or an actress of made reputation— this was 
indeed a feast to the girl who had never witnessed 
any more ambitious performances than those to be 
seen in country theatres, with poor scenery and 
wretched surroundings, and where one star — usually 
her own mother — was detestably supported by a host 
of inferior actors. 

She became perfectly absorbed, and quite oblivious 
of everything save the story on the stage. 

Would she have remained so unconscious had she 
perceived, far back in the pit, a poorly-dressed young 
man, who, having been presented with a ticket by an 
old comrade,- had strolled in to see the great play of 
the day, and to while away a couple of hours in the 
warmth and brightness of the well-lit house ? 

The young man saw her well enough, and it is 
possible that he paid less attention to what was going 
on beyond the footlights than to that fair head 
crowned with the glittering jewel that was bent 
forward out of the box above him. He remembered 
how often in old days he had caught sight of the 
same eager young face and golden hair, up in the 
gallery, or in the upper boxes, with eyes full of 
interest and of excitement over some new part in 
which he himself had figured. Alas ! happy days of 
poverty and of love ! days that were over for ever ! 

The curtain was just going down upon the first act 
amidst a burst of applause, and Hermione, carried 
away by her enthusiasm, was clapping her small grey- 
gloved hands energetically together, when the door of 


io6 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


the box opened and Charles Irvine came quietly in 
and sat down in a vacant chair behind her. 

She looked annoyed. Go where she would, she 
seemed unable to escape from this man’s unwelcome 
presence. He was a daily visitor in Berkeley Square. 
Sometimes he cam.e to lunch, sometimes he called so 
late in the afternoon that her aunt, out of sheer polite- 
ness, was obliged to invite him to dinner ; if she did 
not see him indoors, she met him in the street; at 
picture-galleries, even in shops; he seemed to dog 
and haunt her footsteps like a shadow. 

Now, of course, here he was again at the theatre ! 
It seemed to her as though the whole pleasure of the 
evening was spoilt to her. 

And yet, in spite of her repugnance and impatience, 
there was, through it all, a curious attraction and 
fascination to her about him. Individually, she 
detested him, but oddly enough he was always bring- 
ing back something to her mind that she could not 
grasp or retain long enough to know what it was, 
and that seemed to remind her of something that she 
wanted to be reminded of. Sometimes she told her- 
self that she must be under a spell, and that he had 
some evil power over her which she was unable to 
resist. For he could always make her talk to him. 
His talents as a conversationalist were considerable, 
and when he left off paying her compliments, and 
talked about books, or art, or theoretical views of life, 
she began to be interested, and there were whole 
minutes together during which she almost liked him ; 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


107 

then he would take occasion to remind her that he 
had saved her life, and swallowing her secret rage at 
his bad taste, she would thank him politely, and at 
her heart begin to hate him anew ! 

This comedy began to play itself out over again 
this evening in the box at St James’s Theatre. 

Mr Deverell had a business appointment at the 
Carlton Club, and was obliged to leave the ladies at 
the end of the first act. This brought Mr Irvine 
more to the front of the box, and seated between 
Lady Catherine and her niece, he proceeded to devote 
himself exclusively to the latter. 

He had a way of bending down his head and 
gazing intently into her face, which was exceedingly 
lover-like, and eminently embarrassing to her. It 
had the effect, too, of making her conspicuous, and in 
so public a place as a theatre it made her feel ex- 
tremely uncomfortable. 

The curtain went up for the second act, and 
Hermione, resolutely turning her back upon him, 
and leaning well forward against the edge of the 
box, endeavoured to show him by her attitude that 
she desired to give her whole attention to the stage. 

‘ How unkind you are to me ! ’ she heard him 
murmur "behind her. ‘ Am I to see nothing at all 
but the back of that golden head and the nape of 
that delicious little white neck?’ 

She turned hot with anger, but pretended not to 
hear. 

After a few seconds Charles Irvine softly put forth 


io8 A DIFFICULT MATTER 

his hand, and under cover of the darkness of the box 
laid it caressingly upon her bare arm. 

This was too much for Hermione. She turned 
upon him with blazing eyes. 

‘ How dare you ! ’ she panted, and she looked 
across to her aunt for protection, but Lady Catherine 
was dozing peacefully behind the shelter of the satin 
curtains in her shadowy corner. 

‘ Hermione,* whispered Charles, reproachfully, ‘why 
should you be angry ? ’ 

‘ No man ever ventured to take such an unwarrant- 
able liberty with me before,’ she gasped, with shortened 
breath and quivering lips. 

‘ Because, my dear girl,’ he answered, with an 
irritatingly careless shrug of the shoulders, ‘ no man 
before ever stood precisely in the same relation to 
you that I do.’ 

‘ And in what relation, pray, do you imagine that 
you stand to me ? * she inquired furiously. 

‘ The relation of a man to whom you owe your life.* 

‘ I wish to goodness you had left me to be 
drowned ! * she cried impetuously. 

‘ Oh, no, you don’t, my dear child ! Life is very 
sweet, and exceedingly enjoyable to you — a pretty 
woman who is spoilt and made much of, as you are, 
never has the slightest desire to end her life. Only, 
please don’t forget that you owe that life to 
me.* 

‘ Do you ever allow me to forget it for one moment ? * 
she inquired bitterly. 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


109 

‘ I only want to make that dear life a happy one/ 
he murmured amorously in her ear. 

‘ Then, for heaven’s sake hold your tongue now 
and allow me to listen to the play,’ she replied irrit- 
ably, turning her back completely upon him. 

Charles Irvine smiled as he leant back in his chair. 
He knew his power, and he was content to bide his 
time. The three-act comedy had very little interest 
for him. It was the serio-comedy of his own exist- 
ence that held him in thrall. He did not even take 
the trouble to look at the actors upon the stage, but 
sat feasting his eyes upon the slender form of the girl 
beside him. He devoured her sweet young beauty 
with covetous and longing looks ; marked the grace- 
ful pose of her white neck, the little golden tendrils of 
hair that lay upon the cream-white skin, the contour 
of the tiny pink ear half turned away from him, the 
soft outline of the rounded cheek and chin. Would 
they all be his some day? he wondered. Should 
he be the sole owner and proprietor of it all? 
Would he, one day, be allowed to pass his arm un- 
reproved around that tiny waist and press his lips 
upon that milk-white shoulder? 

The thought of it made his head throb, and turned 
his blood to fire — for he loved her — desperately and 
madly, as he had never loved any living being be- 
fore ! 

And all unconscious of the passion that she had 
inspired, Hermione sat quietly and unconcernedly by 
his side, her whole soul in the story that was being 


no 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


acted, her mind absorbed in the fate of the actors 
upon the stage. Whilst far away in the dark corner 
of the closely-packed pit, a man with pale face, and 
haggard eyes filled with a speechless rage, watched 
her, and watched Charles Irvine too; and cursed 
him, as he watched him, from the bottom of his 
heart ! 

Those curses, it may be well understood, were two- 
fold. 

Percival Green was not only jealous on behalf of the 
woman he loved, to whom he perceived that Charles 
Irvine was doing his best to make love, in spite of her 
evident displeasure, but he was also jealous for the 
happiness and the honour of that other pale, faded 
woman to whom Charles ought in duty bound to have 
consecrated his life. 

‘ The blackguard ! ’ he muttered below his breath. 
And yet he did not in the least realise the full depth 
of his cousin’s conduct and motives. 

It merely seemed to him that this man, who was as 
good as married already to his sister Laura, was 
merely amusing himself by playing at love with the 
charming and attractive young girl with whom he was 
spending the evening. 

By-and-by he became calmer, and told himself 
that probably no harm was meant Laura had 
assured him that Charles had pledged himself anew 
to marry her almost immediately; it was unlikely, 
therefore, that his manner towards Hermione Deverell 
meant more than an idle flirtation. 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


III 


* Though the fellow has an odiously familiar way of 
conducting a flirtation ! ’ he thought. ‘ Lucky that 
my darling is too sweet and true to be taken with his 
attentions ! they are evidently most unwelcome to 
her — God bless her ! Well — I often pray that she 
may find a good husband and be happy and forget 
me, but I hope and trust she may take up with 
another sort of chap to Charles Irvine ! that is not 
the kind of man for her ! I think her pure instincts 
will teach her to avoid such men as he is.* 

By-and-by the performance came to an end, and 
the audience began to file out of the theatre by its 
various exits. 

Being at the back of the pit, Percival got out 
easily, and he went round to the main entrance of 
the house and waited outside amongst the crowd 
in the street, to get one glimpse more of the girl 
he loved. 

Richard Deverell, having come round from the 
club, was also waiting just inside the entrance to 
meet his wife and niece, and presently Percival 
saw the little party of three coming out amongst 
the crowd. 

Hermione was wrapped in a soft white cashmere 
cloak that fell in full folds about her graceful figure. 
She was walking by the side of Lady Catherine, 
and Charles Irvine was on the other side of her 
aunt. 

They all stopped when they met Mr Deverell, and 
there appeared to be some discussion as to what they 


II2 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


were going to do, and Percival fancied that Hermione 
looked vexed and annoyed. 

They came nearer to where he was standing 
amongst the crowd upon the pavement. Mr Deverell 
and Lady Catherine first, and Hermione and Charles 
following them. Percival heard her say, — 

‘ It is very kind of you, Mr Irvine, but, really, I am 
tired, and would rather go straight home, and besides, 
I never eat supper. I am not in the least hungry, 
and it is so late.’ 

‘ But Lady Catherine has consented to come, and I 
have ordered supper to be all ready ; my rooms are 
only in Cork Street, not very far — ’ 

‘ I am really sorry to disappoint you. Take my 
aunt to supper by all means ; but please let me go 
home with my uncle to Berkeley Square.’ 

The carriages came up. Mr Irvine was a man of 
property now, and already he was beginning to live 
in the style and fashion of a rich man. He had 
started his own brougham, which drew up to the 
door immediately behind Lady Catherine’s. 

Mr Deverell turned round to the young people. 
He had no idea at all of encouraging Irvine’s 
attentions to his niece by going to his carefully- 
prepared supper. 

‘Very sorry, my dear fellow,’ he said to him, ‘but 
Lady Catherine has had about enough, she can’t 
stand late hours. You had better come home, 
Hermione. Supper-parties only ruin a pretty girls’ 
complexion and spoil her beauty sleep.’ 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


‘ Certainly, uncle, I mean to come home.’ 

‘ I may at least be allowed to drive Miss Deverell 
back to Berkeley Square, sir ? ’ pleaded Charles. 

Hermione made a gesture of dissent She would 
rather have gone home a third between her uncle 
and aunt. But Lady Catherine was already in her 
brougham, and the policeman was hurrying away 
the coachman. It was too late to fight over the 
matter. Richard Deverell jumped in after his wife, 
and the carriage went off. 

Hermione reflected that it was only a very little 
way from the St James’s Theatre to Berkeley Square, 
and decided that it would be better not to make a 
fuss over so small a matter, but to make the best 
of the situation. 

So she got into Mr Irvine’s brougham without any 
further demur. 

Then it was that Percival Green noticed that 
instead of giving the order to go to Berkeley Square 
openly, Irvine\went close up to the coachman and 
gave some direction to him in a low voice. He then 
jumped in and slammed to the door. 

Immediately a horrible suspicion came into 
Percival’s mind. The man was treacherous and 
false. He felt convinced that he was dealing dis- 
honourably by the girl who had trusted herself to 
his care. 

Presently, as the brougham turned into St James’s 
Street, a shabby-looking man, following it closely in 
the darkness, sprang up behind and clung on 


H 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


114 

between the back springs ; and so it happened that 
when the carriage drew up five minutes later — not in 
Berkeley Square but in Cork Street — Mr Percival 
Green was standing by the side of it as Charles 
Irvine got out. 

‘ This is not Berkeley Square ! ’ he heard the girl 
say sharply in rather a frightened voice. ‘ Where 
have you brought me, Mr Irvine?’ 

‘ Only to have some champagne. Come, you 
must get out, only just for five minutes — I won’t keep 
you longer. Nobody will ever know ; we can say we 
got run into by a cab — -or that the horse fell down 
— to account for the delay to your uncle. Come, 
don’t be foolish, what is there to be frightened of? 
Just come up for one minute and have a look at 
a new picture I have just bought — do, there’s a dear 
girl ! ’ 

‘ I do not intend to go into your rooms, Mr 
Irvine.’ 

‘ Oh, yes, you will ; you know you have always 
got to let me have my own way. Come,’ and 
then he took her by the hands and began to 
drag her out of the carriage. ‘ By God, you 
madden me!’ he exclaimed, as she half fell over 
the steps ; then the brute in him getting the upper 
hand at last of his usual smooth exterior, he added, 
‘ You shall come in ! I swear that you shall I * 

‘You scoundrel! ’ said a low voice close behind 
him, and the next moment Mr Charles Irvine had 
measured his length upon the ground, and lay half 


A DIFl'iCULT MATTER 


1^5 

across the pavement on his face, with his head in 
the gutter. 

* I will see you safely home, Miss Deverell,' said 
Mr Green, quietly, after having performed this feat, 
and beckoning to a passing hansom, he placed the 
trembling girl safely within its shelter, and jumped 
into it after her. 


CHAPTER XI 


Hermione sank back in the cab in a half- fainting 
condition. For some moments she seemed scarcely 
aware of who it was who was by her side, and 
Percival Green judged it wiser and kinder to leave 
her to recover herself in silence. 

Presently, however, she lifted her head and looked 
at him. * Percival ! is it really you ? ’ 

‘ Yes, I’m not exactly fit to sit in my shabby, 
clothes next to such a smartly-dressed young lady, 
am I ? ’ he said rather grimly. 

‘That is nonsense,’ she answered quietly. ‘You 
have done me a great service — that man — I do not 
like him much, and, of course, he has behaved badly 
to-night, but I — I don’t think he is altogether bad — 
he did a brave thing once.’ 

‘ Did he ? lam glad to hear it,’ he replied drily. 

‘ But he frightens me, and I was very glad you 
were there. How wonderful that you should have 
happened to be passing by 1 I hope you did not 
hurt him.’ 

‘ Oh, no — he’s all right.* 

‘ Don’t let us speak of him,’ she continued, with an 
effort, and again she felt tongue-tied ! There was a 
sort of loyalty in her heart towards Charles Irvine, a 

ii6 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


117 

loyalty born of what he had done for her once, which 
kept her from putting into words her strong aversion 
and dislike to him. 

‘ And you, Percival — how have you fared lately ? ’ 

* Better than I could have dared to hope,’ he 
answered cheerfully. ‘ My article has been ac- 
cepted, and I have an order to write a sequel to it, 
and by the way, dear Hcrmione, I must work hard 
to-morrow, so I cannot meet you in your morning 
walk, but if you are there on Friday, I will try and 
come then.’ 

There was no time for more, for the cab had 
stopped in Berkeley Square ; but after be had rung 
the bell, as they stood together for a moment on the 
doorstep, Percival said to her earnestly, — 

‘ Drop that man’s acquaintance if you can, Her- 
mione. He is not a good friend for you.’ 

‘ I wish to heaven I could drop him,’ she answered 
a little distractedly. ‘ I would give the world never 
to see him again ! but I must ! I believe it is fate — 
fate ! ’ she repeated, with a sort of despair in her 
voice. 

The door was opened, and to the surprise of both 
it was the master of the house himself who opened it. 

‘ Why, Hermione ! ’ he cried, and then his astonished 
gaze fell upon the shabby, threadbare figure who was 
turning away into the darkness behind her. ‘Who 
is this person with you?’ he inquired coldly and 
angrily ; but Percival Green had already vanished. 

‘ It is an old friend,’ she stammered, ‘ a friend of 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


ii8 

my mother’s ; 1 knew him long ago ; he brought me 
back.’ 

‘ A friend ! he looked like a beggar ! ’ replied her 
uncle, contemptuously ; and, of course, he saw at once 
that this was the same seedy-looking individual whom 
he had seen with her in the park two mornings ago ; 
although, oddly enough, on neither occasion had he 
succeeded in catching a sight of the shabbily-dressed 
man’s face. ‘ And pray, how came he to see you 
home, Hermione? What has become of Irvine, in 
whose charge I left you ? ’ 

‘ I — I don’t know,’ said poor Hermione, turning 
white and red alternately, ‘ I cannot explain. Please 
let me go to bed, uncle, I am very tired.’ 

‘ I think,’ said Richard Deverell, sternly, as he made 
way for her to pass upstairs, ‘ that if you cannot 
explain this incomprehensible and disreputable ac- 
quaintance to me, that it will be necessary that you 
should do so to your grandfather.’ 

And poor Hermione went to bed feeling that her 
cup of wretchedness was full indeed ! 

Meanwhile, it was with no enviable feelings that 
Percival Green walked away through the foggy dark- 
ness of the London night. 

He was no longer, it is true, actually penniless, for 
he had been paid that day for his article, and had 
a couple of sovereigns in his pocket. He had taken 
a modest bedroom off the Strand, and he had eaten 
a substantial dinner. Moreover, the editor of the 
magazine had thought highly of his work, had been 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


119 

exceedingly polite to him, and had requested him to 
undertake regular work for him. So that starvation 
no longer stared him in the face. 

Yet, with all that, he was desperately unhappy, 
both on his own account and on Hermione’s, for whom 
he began to dread he knew not what dangers. The 
worst of it was that he was powerless to help her ; 
he was forced to hide himself from all those who had 
once known him, and to conceal his identity under an 
assumed name. His own name was for ever disgraced, 
and without ruining the future of his own sister, he 
saw no way of ever holding up his head again. And 
betwixt Hermione and himself there yawned a gulf 
wider and more impassable than ever. It was not 
only her love — that he knew he must never dare to 
dream of again — it was also that poor substitute to a 
-lover’s heart, her friendship ! 

How was he to retain even that, when he must 
never dare to see her openly, and was helpless to 
stand by her and protect her, as a friend ought to 
do ? 

And what was the meaning of Charles Irvine’s 
inexcusable conduct? Did he mean to play false 
to Laura? Did he suppose he could do so with 
impunity ? 

‘No — by heaven!’ and Percival swore to himself 
that he should not. ‘ If the worst comes to the worst 
— why, then — I * The sentence remained unfinished 
upon his lips, but there was a very black cloud upon 
his brow as he turned in to his humble lodging. 


120 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


Richard Deverell quite enjoyed writing to his 
father. He lost no time about it, but sat up writ- 
ing that very night, and went out to post the letter 
himself before he went to bed in the pillar-box at 
the corner of the square, so that Sir Francis might 
receive it by the second post on the morrow. 

‘This is what comes of taking up the daughter of 
such a woman as Nelly Barker!’ he wrote. ‘My 
dear father, you never in your short-sighted and 
Quixotic kindness of heart . committed a greater 
mistake ! The girl has a low lover — some fellow 
she must either liave picked up in the streets, or else 
have known in her former life ; she said the latter 
when I taxed her with it. He is quite a common- 
looking man, wears threadbare clothes and a shabby 
pot hat. I saw him talking to her in the park first, 
but I hoped that it was accidental, and that he was 
some beggar in whom she took an interest, and so I 
said nothing ; but when it comes to this fellow having 
brought her home in a hansom from the theatre at 
night, I think it is time you should be told of it. 
Frankly, neither Catherine nor I can continue to un- 
dertake the responsibility of looking after a girl who 
has no ladylike instincts, and who makes appoint- 
ments with a man of this kind. Come up and see 
for yourself if you doubt my word ; it is my belief 
that she meets him every morning in the park when 
she takes the dog out for his walk ; we can follow her 
and watch, and if what I say should be true, then let 
me advise you, my dear father, to wash your hands 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


I2I 


entirely of this girl before she brings fresh disgrace 
upon the name of DeverelL’ 

There was a good deal more of it, but all in the 
same strain. Sir Francis was reproached for his im- 
pulsive and ill-considered folly in ever having under- 
taken the charge of his grandchild, and urged to put 
her back again immediately into that lowly position 
of life out of which he had so unadvisedly lifted 
her. 

Mr Deverell was convinced that his letter was the 
very epitome of wisdom and prudence, and could 
not fail to persuade his father to adopt his own 
views. 

If he could only have seen and realised the misery 
which the poor old man underwent when he received 
that letter ! the blow it was to his pride, the horrible 
pain to his heart ! But sustained by his own admir- 
able and virtuous motives, by his readiness to believe 
evil of Nelly Barker’s child, and by his apprehension 
lest she might interfere with those coveted legacies 
to his younger sons, Richard Deverell was quite blind 
to all other considerations, and did not take into 
account the distress and grief which his letter would 
cause his father. 

In one sense the letter had the desired effect. Sir 
Francis determined that he would get to the bottom 
of the affair ; he would come up to London, and he 
would see with his own eyes this man whom Hermione 
was accused of meeting. 

He had no doubt that it was the same young man, 


122 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


that ‘ play actor ’ to whom she had said she was en- 
gaged, and who bore the inferior and abominable 
name of Green. 

But then she had pledged him her word that she 
would think about that man no longer ! she had 
assured him that she had given him up ! How was 
it then that she had not kept faith with him ? 

He telegraphed to his son, and came up to town 
that same evening — not to Berkeley Square, but to 
an hotel, so that Hermione should know nothing 
about it. Richard called upon his father, and the 
two had a long confidential conversation together ; 
and Sir Francis, after much persuasion on the part 
of his son, was induced to say that should he become 
convinced that Hermione was bent upon disgracing 
herself by a low marriage, he would consent to erase 
her from his heart and his home. 

‘And from his will, too, I heartily and devoutly 
trust!’ added Mr Deverell to himself, as he walked 
away homewards to dinner, not ill-satisfied with his 
afternoon’s work. 

‘You will send Hermione out with your dog in the 
morning ? ’ he inquired casually of his wife that even- 
ing, in the privacy of the marital chamber. 

‘ With Fudgy ? — Hermione ? ’ repeated Lady 
Catherine, vaguely. ‘Oh, yes, I suppose she will 
take him out At least, I have no one else I can 
really trust with my beauty till Celestine comes 
back. Unless, of course, you object, when I will 
arrange that Jane shall undertake it; if she took 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


123 


him on the lead and never let him go, it might be 
safe,’ she added reflectively. 

‘By no means, my love, by no means!’ cried her 
husband, hastily. ‘ Send Hermione out with the 
animal as usual — in fact, I only inquired because I 
am specially anxious that she should go out with 
him to-morrow morning. Can you keep a secret, 
Catherine ? ’ 

‘ Well, I Iiave been credited with some faculty of 
doing so,’ replied his wife, languidly. 

‘Well, then, I will tell you something. I have, I 
believe, in my hands at this moment the means of 
saving our two dear boys, Willie and Alfred, from 
being entirely left out of my father’s will. Under 
Providence, in fact, I may say, I shall perhaps be 
the instrument of ousting this low-born girl from the 
poor old gentleman’s house.’ 

‘Do you mean Hermione? Is she “low born”? 
I thought she was your brother’s child I ’ 

‘ Ah, but consider her mother 1 A common play 
actress ! Why, she never even rose in her profession, 
never acted at any London theatre, save at Sadlers 
Wells once, where poor Walter was fool enough to 
lose his heart to her; and the girl takes after her 
mother. I am going to open my father’s eyes to that 
fact’ 

And then Mr Deverell proceeded to explain to his 
wife how he had arranged that bis father and he 
should follow Hermione in her morning walk and 
watch whether she did not meet by appointment a 


124 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


disreputable-looking man in the park and enter into 
long and familiar conversation with him, such a 
man as it was disgraceful and shameful to the repu- 
tation of Miss Deverell of Deverell Place to be 
seen with. 

‘You are going to spy upon her, in fact?’ said her 
ladyship, quietly, and then she made use once more 
of that expression which Richard hated more than 
anything else she ever said. ‘ How very funny ! ’ she 
added placidly. 

Volumes could not have spoken her contempt more 
plainly. He coloured with anger and annoyance. 

‘ Ah, well, of course, I don’t expect sympathy from 
you, though it is your own boys’ future that is at 
stake.’ * 

And then Lady Catherine made, for her, one of 
the most energetic speeches that she had ever been 
known to utter, — 

‘ I had rather that Willie and Alf begged their 
bread in the streets than that they should live to 
play a mean and dishonourable trick upon a defence- 
less woman ! ’ 

There is something in blood after all ! Lady 
Catherine was not Lord Braceby’s daughter for 
nothing. 

Her husband knew at his heart that she was right 
and that he was wrong, but as he would have died 
rather than own it, he only went out of her room and 
slammed the door violently behind him. 

All unconscious of the plot by which her uncle, in 


A DIFFICULT MATl'ER 


125 


his cupidity, had planned to ruin and disgrace her in 
the eyes of her grandfather, Hermione went leisurely 
upstairs the following morning after breakfast to put 
on her hat and jacket in order to perform her little 
daily service to her aunt’s dog. She was very glad 
to do it, for, apart from all other more selfish con- 
siderations, she was grateful to Lady Catherine, who 
was uniformly kind to her in her own indolent and 
placid fashion, and who often by her thoughtfulness 
and tact turned aside sundry little unkind allusions 
and aspersions which her uncle frequently gave vent 
to, more at her than to her. Moreover, Hermione 
was exceedingly fond of dogs, and although pugs are 
not perhaps the most lovable of all the canine race, 
still this particular pug was not without his own 
peculiar little attractive ways. Whilst Hermione 
was fastening on her hat and buttoning her jacket 
and gloves, Fudgy was wriggling about all round and 
about her, in delighted expectation of his daily out- 
ing, and every nerve in his little fat, ungainly body 
was quivering with joy and gladness. 

The morning was, as London mornings in winter 
are wont to be, a little foggy and raw, and Hermione, 
when she found herself outside in the chill air, walked 
briskly on towards the Green Park. 

Her heart was full of happiness, for she was about 
to see Percival and to learn from him all the history 
of his new work. Like most women who love, she 
had but little thought concerning the future ; it was 
enough for her to know that she was to see him to- 


126 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


clay, to look into his dear face, to hear his voice and 
to feel tlie touch of his hand. 

She had recognised the fact that he was her lover 
no longer ; he himself had said that they could never 
be to each other all that which for a few short weeks 
of happiness they had once hoped to become. She 
had bowed meekly to his decision and did not seek 
to alter it. She saw herself, indeed, plainly enough, 
that her grandfather could never give his consent to 
such a marriage for her, and that by following her 
mother’s dying wishes and identifying herself with 
her father’s people she had cut herself off from the 
lover of her former life, and had tacitly pledged her- 
self to acquiesce in her grandfather’s wishes. 

But, for all that, at her heart she loved him still, 
and there was nothing on earth that could give her 
so much happiness as to see Percival and be sure at 
least of his sympathy and friendship. 

So, when in the distance, through the fog, she saw 
him advancing towards her under the smoke- 
blackened trees of the park, her heart beat quickly 
with pleasure and delight 


CHAPTER XII 


On the afternoon of the following day, the same day 
upon which Sir Francis Deverell had received his 
son’s letter and had hurried impulsively up to 
London, a scene which was not without its bearing 
upon the fortunes of the different persons in this 
history took place in the house in the neighbourhood 
of Portman Square where the two Miss Irvines were 
lodging. 

The two sisters were together in the ground floor 
front room that served them for a sitting-room. 
Annie Irvine, the elder, was a gaunt, dark-featured 
woman of nine-and-thirty. She was eight years 
older than her sister, and the brother who had 
disgraced the family, and whom most people believed 
to be dead, had come between the two. Annie was a 
good woman, a much better woman than her sister, 
charitable to the poor, just and upright in her 
conduct, and scrupulously honest in her dealings ; 
and yet she was a hard woman, and nobody had ever 
loved her in the way that Laura, the spoilt, selfish, 
capricious beauty had been loved. 

Annie was seated by the square table in the centre 
of the room cutting out shirts of unbleached calico 
127 


128 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


for a poor people’s work society, to which she 
contributed her time as well as her money. Every 
now and then she tore tlie rough, hard stuff across 
from end to end, and every time she did so, Laura, 
who was lying idiy on the sofa, winced and put up 
her hands to her ears'at the shriehing noise of it. 

‘ Oh, Annie, do stop ! ’ she pleaded. ‘ My head 
aches so and the noise is so horrible.’ 

Annie laid down her scissors at once and pushed 
the calico up into a heap. 

‘ Why did you not say so before ? I had no idea 
you had a headache, but there are three dozen of 
these shirts to cut out before to-morrow ; the poor 
women are waiting for them ; however, I can be 
looking out the buttons and the cottons for those 
that are finished. By the way, Lollie, the landlady 
spoke to me this morning about these rooms ; she 
wants to know if we are going to take them on after 
Christmas. I promised to give her an answer to- 
night. What do you think ? Shall we keep them, 
or shall we see if we can get something a little larger 
and airier ? ’ 

For a moment or two Laura did not answer ; then, 
with a slightly heightened colour, she said, — 

‘ There is something, Annie, that I think I ought 
to tell you, because it will affect our future plans very 
much. It is a secret, so I must trust you not to 
mention it, but I think the time has come when you 
ought to know.’ 

‘ Dear me, Lollie, you quite interest me ! What 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


129 


wonderful secret can you possess that I know 
nothing about?’ 

‘ It is somebody else’s secret as well as my own, 
Annie, so you must promise to be very discreet ; it 
concerns Charles.’ 

‘ Charles ? And you ? ’ inquired the other sharply. 

‘ Charles and me,’ she replied, colouring very 
much ; ‘ he has asked me to marry him.’ 

‘ I am very sorry to hear it,’ replied the elder sister, 
uncompromisingly. 

‘ Oh, Annie, how unkind !* 

‘ Not at all, Lollie ; I hoped all that folly was over 
years ago. Of course, I know that as a girl you were 
in love with him, but I thought that by this time you 
were not only older but wiser.’ 

‘ But what possible objection can you see to it ? * 

‘ I see several. First and foremost, I disapprove 
extremely of the marriage of first cousins, and, as 
you know very well, that was the reason why our 
poor father would not hear of the engagement years 
ago ; besides which, if you marry him, where are you 
to live ?’ 

‘ Why, at Goldsbury, of course, where Charles will 
go to live as soon as the house can be got ready for 
him after the departure of the tenants.’ 

‘ Lollie, you cannot live at Goldsbury ! ’ cried her 
sister, with energy. ‘ You cannot return to that house 
from which we fled seven years ago in shame and in 
disgrace, where every creature about the place and 
for miles around, every child in the village, even, 


I 


130 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


knows that our wretched brother forged his own 
father’s name. Not one of us can ever show our 
faces at Goldsbury again.’ 

‘It is a long time ago,’ murmured Laura, con- 
fusedly. ‘ I don’t see why we should not go back, 
people forget things — ’ 

‘You must be lost to all sense of shame to con- 
template the idea of going back ! If other people, 
as you say, forget, 7ve at least ought never to forget.’ 

‘ I am sorry you take it in this strong way, Annie. 
I had hoped that you would come and live with us 
there when 1 am married — for a portion of the year, 
at all events.’ 

‘ Put that idea promptly out of your mind, then, 
for I shall never set foot in Goldsbury again, and, for 
the same reason^ you ought not to consent to marry 
Charles, unless he undertakes that you shall never be 
asked to go there.’ 

‘ I don’t see it in the same light that you do, Annie, 
and after all, poor Val — ’ 

‘ Do not mention our wretched brother’s name ; I 
forbid it ! ’ cried Annie, with anger and indignation. 
‘ Oh, I know very well what you would say, that he is 
dead. And, of course, that is the only grain of com- 
fort we can possibly have. The grave has swallowed 
up his sin and his shame, thank God ! thank God for 
that ! that is the only palliation that has been vouch- 
safed to us. For if he lived still, there is no corner in 
all England where it would be right for us to exist ! ’ 

Poor Laura sank back, pale and trembling, in her 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


sofa corner. What if Annie knew that Val himself 
had been in this very room only two days ago? 

But Annie had never known the truth. She be- 
lieved what everybody else did ; nobody but Laura 
knew. 

It was just at that moment that an open carriage 
and handsome pair of bay horses drew up before the 
door of the house, and the two sisters, looking out 
behind the close-drawn muslin curtains, perceived 
Lady Catherine Deverell with a very pretty young 
lady seated by her side. 

‘Good gracious!’ exclaimed Annie, ‘it’s Lady 
Catherine Deverell come to call on us I ’ and she 
whisked out of the room in time to catch the maid, 
who was just going along the hall to answer the 
door. 

‘ Say “ not at home,’* ’ she said to her breathlessly. 

‘Why do you say that?’ cried Laura. ‘Are we 
never to see any visitors at all ? ’ 

‘Certainly not visitors who are in any way con- 
nected with Southshire. I wonder you don’t see 
yourself that we cannot possibly meet anybody of the 
name of Deverell — Sir Francis knew all.’ 

Laura was looking discontentedly out of the 
window at the departing carriage. She thought her 
sister’s motive very far-fetched and very ridiculous ; 
their life was very dull, it would have amused her 
to have talked to Lady Catherine; her own sensi- 
bilities were blunted to all that Annie felt so acutely 
still, as indeed they were bound to be, or she could 


132 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


not have continued to love Charles Irvine, and to 
desire to become his wife. 

‘I wonder who that pretty girl is with her?’ she 
said aloud. ‘Did you notice her, Annie?’ 

‘No, I did not see. Was she pretty? Perhaps it 
was one of her nieces — one of the Bracebys. I believe 
the present Lord Braceby, Lady Catherine’s brother, 
has several daughters.’ 

The carriage drove away, and the sisters were left 
to the monotony of their daily life. Presently Annie 
packed up the shirts that she had finished cutting out 
into a parcel, and said she would go out and leave 
them at the mission house, and promise the remainder 
for the morrow. 

‘ Won’t you come out and have a little walk with 
me, Laura?’ 

But Laura did not want to go out; and Miss 
Irvine went out alone with a brown paper parcel 
under her arm. 

About ten minutes after she had gone, there was a 
ring at the bell that set Laura’s heart galloping, and 
in another moment a visitor whom she was always 
hoping, and longing, and yearning to see, was shown 
into the room. 

She sprang with quite a girlish eagerness from her 
sofa to meet him. Her thin face became suffused 
with colour, her eyes shone with gladness, for a 
moment she looked again almost the beautiful Laura 
Irvine who ten years ago had been the belle of every 
ball in Southshire. 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


133 


‘ Oh, how glad I am to see you ! ' she cried with 
delight. ‘ What a time it is since you have been here, 
Charles ! a whole week to-day ! and you have never 
answered one of my letters ! ’ 

Charles Irvine kissed her coldly and carelessly, and 
threw himself down into a chair. He looked cross 
and worried, and he had a lump on his forehead above 
one eye, which, as a matter of fact, had given him a 
very bad headache. 

Laura noticed the bruise at once. ‘ Why, what on 
earth have you done to yourself, Charles ? Have you 
had a blow ? you look as if you had been fighting.’ 

‘ Don’t be an idiot ! fighting indeed ! ’ he answered, 
savagely and roughly ; ‘ it’s nothing. I only slipped up 
getting out of a cab last night, confound it ! and gave 
my head a bit of a knock as I fell.’ 

‘Oh, dear, I am so sorry,’ she murmured, sym- 
pathetically. 

But Charles did not want to talk about the lump 
on his head, it was in fact a very sore subject to him ; 
but although he wished to heaven he knew who it 
was who had knocked him down last night, he had no 
intention of taking any steps to discover. 

Meanwhile, the accident had placed him at a great 
disadvantage, for, to begin with, he had lost his one 
chance of forcing Hermione into an equivocal position 
by entering his rooms, a position to which he had 
trusted greatly in order to plead his suit with her 
more successfully ; and in the second place, he was 
personally disfigured by the blow he had received, 


134 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


and felt himself unable to present himself before 
Hermione with a black eye. To that, no doubt, 
Laura owed it that he had come to see her instead. 

‘ I have just been telling Annie that we are going 
to be married,’ announced Laura, unsuspiciously, 
ta^ng up a position close to his chair and putting 
her hand in his. 

‘ What ! ’ he shouted. ‘ What on earth made you 
tell her such a thing ? ’ 

‘ Why, my dear Charles, pray do not be angry ! I 
did not know that you minded Annie knowing, and I 
warned her that it was a secret. I felt I ought to tell 
her; you see our future plans depend upon it; it was but 
fair to her to let her know. It will make a difference 
to her, of course, my leaving her, and I suppose we 
shall be married at Christmas, shall we not?’ 

Charles Irvine looked up at her for a few moments 
in silence ; there was something in his face which filled 
her with vague disquiet, it was so cold, and hard, and 
cruel. 

She trembled a little. ‘ You — you will not put it 
off later than Christmas, will you, dear Charles ? ’ she 
said hesitatingly. 

‘ My dear Laura, you must learn to look at things 
sensibly,’ he answered, with a little hard laugh. ‘ You 
see, my dear girl, you are rather too fond of jump- 
ing at conclusions. Your “wish is father to your 
thought,” as the saying is. You must be reasonable 
and look at the matter from a common-sense point 
of view.’ 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


135 


She turned very pale. This preamble boded 
nothing but evil. There was deep down in her mind 
a vague, intangible terror which for days and weeks 
and months she had tried not to think of, tried not 
to see. Now, like a nightmare, this terror rose up and 
knocked with a knell of doom at the door of her heart. 
‘ What — what do you mean ? ’ she faltered. 

Again he laughed. What was there in the sound 
of that laugh that froze her blood into ice? 

‘You know, my dear girl, everything changes; life 
changes, circumstances change, one changes oneself, 
one cannot help it You yourself — well, I hope you 
won’t think me unkind, Laura, but you are changed. 
You were, I think, the prettiest and most fascinating 
woman I ever met. Lord ! how lovely you were, 
quite delicious ! and such a witch, too, with your 
caprices and your coquetries, it was enough to turn a 
man’s head to come near you ; and you turned mine 
frankly and fairly, Lollie, you did indeed, and what 
follies I committed for your sake : but — but — that is 
ten years ago — and now — * 

‘ And now I am old and faded ! ’ she cried sharply, 
with pain and indignation. ‘ Oh, pray finish your 
sentence, do not spare me — old and faded ! ’ 

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘ It is you who suggest 
the words, I have no wish to be impolite.* 

There was silence, a silence pregnant with the 
destiny of a woman’s crushed and ruined life. It 
seemed as if neither could summon up the courage to 
break through that terrible silence. 


136 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


It was Laura at last who rushed upon her fate. 

‘What is to be the upshot of all this, Charles? 
Pray explain yourself.’ 

‘Must I ? Oh, well, if you wish it, but I should 
have thought it so much easier for you to accept 
things quietly, and without pushing the matter un- 
pleasantly home, but you women are all like that. 
You must always turn things inside out, and probe 
down to the very root of everything ! Still, of course, 
if you prefer the unvarnished truth — ’ 

‘ I do prefer it What is it?’ she said with forced 
calmness. 

‘ I cannot possibly marry you, Laura, either at 
Christmas or at any other time.’ 

He had the grace to be unable to look her in the 
face as he said it He was holding his hat in his 
hands as he leant a little forward in his chair, and he 
stared into the crown of his hat as he spoke. 

She sprang to her feet 

‘ Good God ! you cannot mean it, Charles ! you 
cannot be so base — so cruel ! You know that in the 
sight of God we are man and wife already. You 
cannot be so vile as to desert a woman you have 
actually married ? ’ 

‘My dear Laura, pray don’t go into heroics, and 
rake up an unfortunate mistake that no one regrets 
more than I do. Of course, had our “ marriage ” been 
a legal one, I should have had to have stuck to it ; 
but by a strange and unforeseen accident, for which I 
really was not in the least responsible, it turned out 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


137 


to be no marriage at all ; the man who married us 
was only masquerading as a parson ; it was un- 
fortunate for you, but then you see — well,’ with 
another significant shrug, ‘it gave me time to re- 
consider it, and to think better of it.’ 

Then she came and knelt by his side, and wound 
her arms about his neck. She put up her face to his, 
her lips to his cheek, and pleaded, poor soul, as a 
woman must ever plead, in vain, for a lost love, for a 
passion that has burnt itself into ashes.^ 

‘Oh, my darling! Charles, my dearest! I love 
you so much, your love for me cannot surely be all 
dead and gone ? Oh, be good to me ! I will be such 
a faithful, loving wife to you ; remember how I have 
staked all, how I have lost my reputation for your 
sake, how I have trusted you, how I have waited 
patiently because you bade me wait, how I have kept 
that old secret and stained my soul in lies and dis- 
honour, for you, for your love’s sake ! Oh, you can- 
not throw me over now, after all the past — surely you 
cannot ! ’ 

But he unwound her arms from his neck and shook 
himself impatiently free from her clinging grasp. 

‘Be sensible, Laura, be reasonable! I tell you 
everything is altered, one cannot conjure back the 
past. We are older, passion always wears out in 
time, and mine for you is dead. I shall always be 
your friend, I really cannot be more. You are 
changed, and I am changed ; and, moreover, I am 
a rich man now, I can afford to marry as I choose.’ 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


138 

‘ Rich ! with my father’s money ; with the price of 
my brother’s disgrace ! ’ 

‘ Don’t be melodramatic. Nothing you can say of 
that kind can alter your father’s will. The money is 
mine, and Goldsbury is mine. I can do as I like with 
my life, and besides — ’ 

A moment of silence. 

‘ Besides — what?' she asked in a low, hoarse voice. 

‘Well, the truth is, I have seen someone — there is 
another woman, in short, whom it is my present in- 
tention to marry.’ 

She never answered a word, but slipped suddenly 
away from his side down to the floor, and lay there 
with her poor, white, unconscious face upon the 
threadbare carpet 


CHAPTER XIII 


Charles Irvine got up and left her there, left her 
ruthlessly, lying upon the floor, unconscious and 
helpless. He did nothing to assist her. He did 
not even ring the bell to summon the people of the 
house. 

‘Poor Laura!’ he said to himself as he went out 
of the room. ‘ So like a woman, to faint and make a 
fuss I However, it’s just as well. I hate scenes and 
reproaches, and I think I’ve had about enough of 
Lollie. By the time she comes to I shall be gone, 
and she will have to get over the shock to her feel- 
ings by herself ; it is much better for her, poor soul, 
if she only knew it, and the truest kindness I can do 
her, to go away and leave her.’ 

And he did go, promptly, congratulating himself, 
as he shut the house door behind him, that he had 
managed to get out of an unpleasant situation so 
quickly and easily. 

Nevertheless, there was still one thing that troubled 
him a little. One object, and that not the least im- 
portant of his visit, was still unfulfilled. He had 
intended to question Laura narrowly as to her 
knowledge of the circumstances of her brother’s 
139 


140 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


death. He could not forget — he never could suc- 
ceed in forgetting — that he had once seen in 
Hermione’s hands a letter addressed in a handwrit- 
ing which bore so extraordinary a likeness to that of 
a man whom he believed to be dead, that the sight of 
it had given him one of the most terrible shocks he 
had ever received in his life. That handwriting 
haunted him. Whose was it ? How did it come to 
be in Hermione’s hands ? Was it possible that that 
letter had been written by the man he had injured 
so terribly ? or was it nothing more than an extra- 
ordinary ocular delusion, or merely a case of a very 
remarkable similarity in the handwriting of some 
stranger? 

He was inclined to believe in the latter theory. As 
time diminished the impression which the incident 
had made upon him, he told himself that his fears 
were certainly imaginary, and that he must have been 
entirely mistaken, and yet, do what he would, that 
unpleasant moment of his life would now and again 
recur to him with the most vivid reality. As he 
went quickly away down Portman Square he met 
Annie Irvine coming back from her charitable errand 
to St Mark’s Mission House. 

‘ Annie may perhaps know something — I will ask 
her,’ he thought, and stopped and shook hands with 
her. He fancied that Annie looked at him rather 
inimically. 

*You have been to see Laura?’ she inquired 
shortly. 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


141 

‘Yes, I have just left her/ He did not think it 
necessary to add that he had left her on the floor in 
a dead faint. 

‘ Laura has told me,* said Annie, going straight to 
the point in her usual abrupt fashion, ‘ that yoh are 
going to marry her.* 

‘Well,’ he replied with hesitation, feeling unable to 
meet her eyes, and looking down at the end of his 
umbrella, ‘that, perhaps, is hardly the way to put 
it, things are not exactly at that stage, I fancy.* 

‘ I am very glad to hear you say so, Charles.* 

Charles looked up quickly. To find an ally in 
Annie was more than he had dared to hope. 

‘ If you will forgive me for speaking plainly,* con- 
tinued Miss Irvine, ‘it would be a very undesirable 
and a very wrong thing that you should marry 
Laura. Remember that upon our branch of the 
family there rests an indelible stain of shame, the 
shame of our unfortunate brother’s crime.* 

He nodded his head sadly and gravely. 

‘Neither you nor Laura have any business to for- 
get that. She ought not to live at Goldsbury, and 
you ought not to ask her to do so. It will be all 
thsitj^ou will be able to do to live down the stain 
upon our name, and to give yourself a chance of 
doing so, you ought to marry some girl who is in no 
way connected with the family, and not the sister of 
the man who has brought disgrace upon us.’ 

*My dear Annie, how thoroughly you and I feel 
alike 1 These are the very arguments I have been 


142 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


using to our poor, dear Laura. I have been trying 
to persuade her to give up this idea of marriage 
between us.’ 

‘Then you do not wish it yourself?’ she asked 
eagerly. 

‘ Alas ! no. How can I in honour desire to marry 
a forger’s sister ? ’ 

‘ You are right — entirely right. I honour you for 
your noble candour. It is all of a piece, Charles, 
with the conduct of your whole life. But our poor, 
dear, spoilt Lollie, what does she say ? ’ 

‘ I think I have succeeded in persuading her that 
we must both sacrifice our feelings to the honour of 
our family.’ 

‘ You are a good man, Charles,’ replied Annie, 
earnestly, and really for the moment Charles Irvine 
firmly believed that he was. 

‘ This puts me in mind, Annie, of something I have 
long wished to ask you. I should have asked Lollie, 
but, poor girl, she is upset, of course, and I did not 
wish to give her additional pain. Have you ever 
had any doubts concerning poor Val’s death? ’ 

‘Never for one moment!’ she replied, startled. 
‘ But why do you ask, Charles ? You alarm me ! 
Have you heard anything?’ 

‘No, no, my dear Annie, calm yourself! I have 
heard nothing. Once indeed, a few months ago, I 
saw a letter I fancied was in his handwriting, but it 
could not be, could it ? ’ 

Annie turned pale. ‘ Good heavens ! such a thing 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


143 


is utterly impossible. My unhappy brother is dead, 
there can be no doubt of it My father received a 
letter about a year after — after — what happened ; 
it was in an unknown handwriting, and from a 
stranger; he told our father that poor Val had died 
of malaria in Naples, and on his deathbed had begged 
him to write to papa. The letter enclosed Val’s 
signet ring and some gold sleeve-links with his initials 
that he used always to wear. We have always 
thought that these proofs were quite conclusive.’ 

‘ Quite,’ replied Charles, thoughtfully. ‘ But did my 
uncle ever have any doubts ? Did he ever make any 
further inquiry?’ 

‘ He did not think it necessary to do so. I believe 
he answered the letter, which appeared to be from a 
mere travelling acquaintance of poor Val’s, but we 
never heard anything more of him.’ 

‘ Can you remember his name ? — the name of the 
man who wrote, T mean.’ 

‘ Let me see — what was it ? Some short name, I 
remember — a name in one syllable — what could it 
have been ? A common sort of name — Brown, or 
Grey — or — oh ! yes, I know ! it was Green. I was 
sure it w'as some colour.’ 

‘Green! that does not tell one much, does it? 
Well, I don’t suppose we shall ever hear of him 
again.’ 

‘ Never. It is six years ago.’ 

The cousins shook hands and parted, each of them 
feeling much easier in mind for their little talk. 


144 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


‘ She won’t marry Charles after all,’ said Annie to 
herself with satisfaction. 

‘ Val is dead as mutton,’ thought Charles ; and so 
he went on his way rejoicing. 

Late that evening, it so happened that Charles 
Irvine, after dining at his own club, went in search of 
an acquaintance into another — the Windham. And 
here, to his surprise, he ran across Sir Francis 
Deverell, who had just wished his son Richard good- 
night after their talk over . Hermione’s iniquities. 
The old gentleman was just going off to bed at his 
hotel in Dover Street, when he met Charles Irvine 
in the hall. 

After they had exchanged mutual greetings, and 
expressed pleasure and surprise at meeting. Sir 
Francis begged his young friend to come and have 
another cigar and a brandy and soda with him in 
the smoking-room. 

* With the greatest pleasure in the world. Sir Francis, 
if 1 am not keeping you too late,’ replied Charles, 
with alacrity. * As a matter of fact, I have a certain 
thing I want to say to you, and I am very glad of 
the opportunity of saying it’ 

When they had settled themselves to their own 
satisfaction in a quiet and comfortable corner of the 
smoking-room, Charles, with a little hesitation in 
his manner, opened the subject that was in his 
mind. 

‘You cannot, I think, be in ignorance. Sir Francis, 
that I am desirous of asking from your hands a 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


I4S 

very great gift — the greatest of all gifts that it is 
in your power to bestow.’ 

Sir Francis cleared his throat ; of course he guessed 
at once what was coming, and nothing could give him 
greater pleasure than this avowal ; at the same time, 
things with Hcrmione were in so unsatisfactory a 
condition that he could have wished that Charles 
had postponed a discussion of the subject. 

* I allude, Sir Francis,’ went on Charles, after a 
moment of silence, * to the hand of your grand- 
daughter, Miss Deverell.’ 

Sir Francis was too clever to betray his satisfac- 
tion. ‘ This is rather sudden, Charles ; you have not 
seen much of Miss Deverell.’ 

‘ Pardon me, I have seen her very constantly, 
daily, in fact, since she has been in Berkeley Square, 
and sometimes friendship progresses rapidly, and 
soon oversteps its boundaries, to become merged 
into something better and dearer.’ 

‘You have not, 1 presume, spoken to my grand- 
daughter ? ’ 

‘ Not a single word ! although I cannot but believe 
that she is aware of my feelings towards her. It is 
to secure your consent and approval. Sir Francis, that 
I address you now ; I am quite willing to wait if I 
can be sure of that’ 

Like most old gentlemen of the old school. Sir 
Francis thought this a most proper and commend- 
able method of procedure. In old days, young men 
always addressed themselves first to the parents and 

K 


146 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


guardians of the young lady they desired to marry. 
It is only in these go-ahead, degenerate days that 
young people have taken to conducting their own 
love affairs themselves, and with no reference to 
their elders. He was pleased and flattered that his 
consent should have been asked. 

‘ I need not tell you. Sir Francis, what no one knows 
better than yourself,’ continued Irvine, with becoming 
modesty, ‘ that my worldly prospects are excellent. 
Goldsbury is a fine place, and is in perfect order ; the 
estate has, in point of fact, been accumulating of late 
years. I can give my wife a luxurious home and a 
good position, and, although you may have looked 
higher perhaps for her, you could hardly, I think, find 
a match more suitable or more satisfactory from a 
worldly point of view.* 

‘ My dear fellow, say no more on that subject,’ 
cried Sir Francis, holding out his hand, which the 
other grasped cordially. ‘ As far as all that goes, I 
should be more than satisfied with such a marriage 
for my little girl. But as you have been frank with 
me, it is my duty to be frank with you, and I must 
tell you honestly that I fear there are very grave 
difificulties in the way. Hermione herself will be 
your difficulty ; I am afraid she would not at present 
listen to you,’ 

‘ I am quite content to wait. A girl’s heart is 
not won all at once. She is shy, she is unwilling 
to marry ; but it can only be a matter of time. Her 
gratitude for the service I have rendered her gives 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


147 


me a certain influence with her, and frequent oppor- 
tunities of meeting her in an easy and intimate way 
will, I have no doubt, do the rest’ 

Sir Francis coughed a little doubtfully behind his 
hand. 

‘ I hope you are right — I am sure I hope you are 
right, Charles, but at the same time I must not shrink 
from telling you the truth ; the fact is, that there 
is an unfortunate entanglement — Hermione declares 
herself to be engaged to somebody else ! ’ 

Charles Irvine sprang from his chair. ‘ Sir Francis ! 
how could you allow it ! ’ he cried agitatedly. 

‘ I have not allowed it, I have in fact forbidden it, 
and she once promised me to give the whole thing up, 
in spite of which I find that — ’ 

‘ You find — what ? ’ 

‘ That she still meets this fellow constantly. In 
spite of her uncle and aunt’s most vigilant care she 
meets him, and so I presume the affair must be still 
going on — that is, in fact, the reason why I am up 
in town just now. I have come to investigate the 
business thoroughly and see if 1 can put a stop to 
it. But you will understand that the moment is not 
a favourable one for pressing your suit upon her.’ 

‘ Who is the man ? ’ 

‘ I really do not know ; some low fellow whom she 
knew in her former life, and who is of course quite 
unworthy of her. I hope, however, to find out more 
about him to-morrow, and I also hope to be able to 
knock his impudent pretensions thoroughly on the 


148 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


head. It is probable that Hermione herself will be 
quite ready to fall in with my views, for she is a dear, 
sensible girl, and it is, I am sure, only because the 
man will not leave her in peace that she has fallen 
once more under his influence.’ 

‘ He must be a scoundrel ! and do you not even 
know his name, Sir Francis?* 

‘ Ah, yes, by the way, that is about all I do know. 
His name is Green.’ 

‘ Green ! ’ repeated Charles Irvine, blankly, ‘ Green I ’ 


CHAPTER XIV 


Percival Green set out to meet Hermione on the 
Friday morning at the appointed hour, with feelings 
of the deepest despondency. He had made up his 
mind that he must see her no more, that meetings 
between them could be of no avail, and were neither 
satisfactory to himself, nor fair to her. When two 
people love each other, and have acknowledged their 
mutual affection, and yet know and acknowledge also 
that there exists an impassable barrier between them, 
then there can be nothing but danger in keeping up 
an intercourse which must certainly result in pain 
and sorrow, and possibly even in a catastrophe to 
both. 

Percival felt that they were living in a fool’s 
paradise, in which it was neither wise nor wholesome 
to continue. Indeed, he would not have seen her 
to-day but for his ardent desire to warn her once 
more against Charles Irvine. It was the task he 
had set to himself this morning, and he feared that 
it would be an exceedingly difficult one, for he could 
not speak of any previous experience of Irvine’s 
character and want of principle, for fear of betraying 
more about himself to her than would be prudent ; 

149 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


150 

for he had determined that, come what might, 
Hermione should never discover his identity. As 
Percival Green she had known him and loved him ; 
as Percival Green he desired that he might remain 
to her, enshrined in her memory for ever. One who 
had once loved her in the days of her poverty, but 
who, because he was poor and lowly, had believed 
it to be his duty to give her up when she became 
rich. Let her never know that there was any other 
graver cause why he could never take her to his 
heart ! That was his only prayer. 

He saw her coming to him a long way off under 
the black and leafless trees of the park. The morning 
was bleak and raw, and there were little gusts of 
drizzling rain which drove against her every now 
and then, and forced her to lower her umbrella over 
her face ; her dark skirts fluttered behind her in the 
wind as she walked, and revealed her neatly-shod 
little feet and slender ankles. He took in eyery 
detail of her appearance as she approached him with 
the keen appreciation of a lovers eye, and he said 
to himself that there was no one on the face of the 
earth that could be compared to her. 

‘ It is for the last time,’ he said to himself, with a 
breaking heart, ‘ for the last time.’ 

She was near enough now to see his face and to 
smile a greeting to him. Fudgy ran on before her 
o welcome him too, and in another moment she 
was by his side, her hand clasped in his, and her blue 
eyes looking up at him with the tenderest love, 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


‘You are better, Percival!’ were her first words. 
‘You are looking another man, not half so pale and 
ill, and you have bought yourself a warm coat ! 
How glad I am,’ and she laid her little gloved hand 
upon his sleeve. ‘Oh! you cannot think how 
wretched I have been, to think of you in that thin 
old coat, out in all weathers without an overcoat, and 
this is a nice thick one.’ 

‘ Only a “ reach-me-down,” I am afraid, my dear ! ’ 
he said, smiling, ‘ such as I should have despised in 
my palmy days, but I am thankful enough for it 
now, I can tell you ! ’ 

‘Then you are getting on? You are making 
money ? ’ 

‘ I don’t know about making ‘much money, but at 
anyrate, if things go on as they promise at present, 
I shall manage to make enough to keep me from 
want, and that, I can tell you, is something to a man 
who has been, as I was, reduced so low that he did not 
know where to turn even to get one meal a day.’ 

‘ Oh, don’t speak of it ! ’ cried Hermione, with a 
shudder, ‘ if you knew how unhappy I have been — ’ 

‘ Well, I think those days are over now ; of course, 
I am only at the foot of the ladder, but I’ve taken 
hold of it, and if I can only get up even on to the 
lowest rung of it ! — but I must confide my great 
ambition to you, Hermione. I am going to write a 
book ; I have begun it, in fact. I think I have some- 
thing to say, something that will make the world 
pause for an instant to think ! If ever you see in 


152 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


future days that a man called Green has written a 
book, promise me that you will send for it and read 
it, for it will be written for you, Hermione. You will 
be its silent dedication, diudj^ou will be its unacknow- 
ledged heroine.* 

‘ But you will send me a copy, of course, Percival, 
and we shall talk it over together all the time you 
are writing it, shall we not ? * 

For a few moments he could not speak, then at last 
in a low voice he said to her, — 

‘ Hermione, we must face the truth together, and 
the truth is that you and I must part for ever.’ 

‘ For ever ? ’ she repeated falteringly, whilst a blank 
coldness crept numbly over her. 

‘Yes, it is to wish you good-bye that I have come 
here to-day, but before I do so, I want to beg you 
to do something for my sake.’ 

‘ I will do anything on earth for your sake,’ she 
answered in a very low voice. 

‘ I want you to be careful of such men as — as the 
one you allowed yourself to go away alone with from 
the theatre the other night.’ 

She coloured very deeply. ‘You blame me, 
Percival ! You think I did wrong ? ’ 

‘ I think you were very imprudent, and see how 
nearly you were led into a false position by a worth- 
less and unprincipled man.’ 

‘ I must explain things a little to you. Mr Charles 
Irvine is his name, and perhaps it is better that I 
should tell you something about him. He is an old 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


*53 


friend of my grandfather’s, who has a high opinion of 
him, and it was my uncle who confided me to his care 
that night/ 

* And very worthy of his confidence he proved him- 
self to be ! ’ cried Percival, indignantly. 

‘Yes, I know, it was abominable — horrible — he 
frightened me ; he could not have behaved worse 
than he did ; he deserved to be knocked down, but 
I think he lost his head and was hardly responsible 
for what he said. I think that if you had not been 
there, he would have listened to me, he would not 
have been insensible to my arguments.’ 

‘Why do you stand up for the fellow?’ cried 
Percival, with a sudden access of jealousy ; ‘ he treated 
you as a man does not treat a lady, and you are 
pleading his cause, and making excuses for him. Do 
you love him ? ’ 

‘ Oh, Percival, of course not ! how can you ask ? 
But listen to what I have to say. Yes, I do try to 
make excuses for Charles Irvine, because I firmly 
believe that there is some good in him, or he would 
never have done what he once did do.’ 

‘What did he do?’ 

‘ He saved my life at the risk of his own.’ And 
then in a few words she told him of what had 
taken place when her horse ran away in Goldsbury 
Park. 

Percival listened in silence, and a deep despondency 
overwhelmed him. 

*So,’ he said at last, ‘you are under an eternal 


154 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


obligation to him. Surely no one ever had so un- 
broken a run of success and luck as this man, who 
deserves it so little ! Is it possible that life can be so 
unequally meted out, and God so unjust?’ 

He lifted his eyes to the grey skies above them 
with a look of despair ; there was a mute protest in 
that look against the cruelty of his fate — a fate 
against which it seemed in vain that he should 
struggle. Did not everything that Charles Irvine 
put his hand to succeed? whilst with himself every- 
thing had failed ! 

But Hermione did not understand him. Woman- 
like, she only thought that he was jealous. 

‘ You see,’ she went on explaining, ‘ it is not that I 
like him — very far from it, for he is rather repellent to 
me than otherwise — but it is that I owe him my life, 
and always he bids me remember that for that reason 
he has a claim on my kindness and forbearance. 
Honestly,’ she added, after a brief pause, ‘ I think that 
he is right’ 

‘ And perhaps in time you will learn to love him ! ’ 
he said gloomily. 

‘ Never ! never ! ’ she cried with energy. ‘ Percival, 
how can you so mistrust me? Shall I not always 
love you and be true to you ! ’ 

For a few minutes he did not answer her, and they 
paced along the wet gravel path in silence. 

A battle was going on within him. Should he tdl 
her ? Should he betray his sister’s secret, and warn 
her that she must listen to no advances from Charles 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


155 


Irvine? No, he felt he could not in fairness to Laura 
do as much as that. Moreover, he could not speak of 
Laura without betraying himself. Should he then 
bind her more closely to himself in order to save her 
from a man, whom sooner than that she should marry, 
he would see her in her coffin ! 

Ah, no ! less than anything else could he do that, 
because he could not be false to his own code of 
honour and of loyalty. He could not offer her a 
stainless name, nor could he drag her down 
to the level of his own disgrace. He was 
nothing but a nameless outcast, how then could he 
mate with Miss Deverell of Deverell Place? If her 
own instincts did not save her from Charles Irvine, 
then, unless he resorted to desperate measures, he 
was powerless to save her from him. 

When he spoke again it was in a very sad and 
quiet voice. 

‘ My dear, I have no right to ask you either to 
love me or to be true to me, I do not deserve it even. 
I hope — and may God give me strength to speak this 
hope honestly and with my whole heart — I hope that 
you will marry well and happily, some man who will 
be worthy of you, and whom your grandfather will 
like you to marry.’ 

‘ You hope that, Percival ! ’ she cried sharply, whilst 
a pang of intense pain struck knife-like through her 
heart. ^You say that to me ! You wish me to marry 
someone else ? Sooner than that I should be true to 
you ! I, who love you, and would wait for you for 


56 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


years — for years ! * she added with an uncontrollable 
outburst of wild and bitter passion. 

‘You might wait for ever/ he answered very sadly, 
‘ it would do no good — no good. I can never marry 
you, Hermione ; how can I be so selfish, then, as to 
wish that you may never be happy with anyone 
else ? ’ 

Perhaps to a proud and sensitive woman there can 
be no more cruel experience on earth than that which 
was Hermione’s lot at that moment. She knew 
nothing, understood nothing, of the motives which 
made him speak in this way to her. She could not 
even guess at the barrier which stood between them ; 
all that she saw was the fanciful and, to her, entirely 
illusionary obstacle of her present position, as 
contrasted with his poverty. It was nothing but 
his pride, she said to herself with anger and despair, 
his cruel, wicked pride, which stood between them ! 

He could not love her truly. If he did, he would 
cast away his pride for the sake of his affection. 
Already, once before, she had told him that she would 
leave everything, give up everything, in order to 
come to him and share his life and poverty, and he had 
refused to accept the sacrifice. Now again he had 
flung back her love and her faithfulness in her face, 
as things which he did not want, and that were of no 
value to him ! Ah ! was a woman’s humiliation ever 
so great as hers was ? 

And so, half mad with anger and blind with pain 
and despair, she answered him angrily and bitterly — 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


157 


‘ Then indeed everything is over between us for 
ever! God forbid that I should keep for you a 
faith you do not want, or offer to you an affection 
which it is evident that you despise and scorn ! I see 
now that I have made a great and terrible mistake, 
and have shown myself to be both unwomanly and 
forward ; but you have opened my eyes now. I 
suppose I ought to be grateful to you for your can- 
dour, I will remember the lesson you have taught 
me; and believe me, I will never so err again. You 
are quite right, we must part, and for ever, for the 
cord that once bound us together is snapped in two. 
Forget me utterly ; it will no doubt be easy to y- -u, 
as easy as, before long, I daresay, it will be easy for 
me to learn to hate you ? * 

He heard her to the end, in a deep and dejected 
silence ; her hard words cut him to the heart, but he 
had no power to check them ; he knew himself to be 
misjudged and misunderstood ; it was the last drop in 
his cup of wretchedness I 

But he made no defence, no protest against her 
injustice, he even said to himself, as he listened 
dumbly, that it was better that she should go from 
him believing all this, than that she should eat her 
heart out in hopeless grief. 

If she can hate me, it will make it easier for her to 
forget me,’ he thought. And so for her sake, and to 
spare her, he was silent. 

He would not even lift his eyes to her face, lest she 
should see the pain and the misery in them, lest 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


158 

unconsciously they might be full of reproach, and so 
cause her later oh one pang of misgiving or remorse. 

And so, in the silence of self-abnegation, he bowed 
his head, as though in mute assent to the truth of her 
bitter words, and turned away and left her, walking 
from her quickly, yet a little haltingly, seeing nothing, 
hearing nothing, feeling nothing — beyond that ice 
weight at his cold heart — as a man walks who has 
got his death-blow. 


CHAPTER XV 

Hermione, too, turned and fled along the wintry 
path back by the way she had come. Her eyes were 
blinded by streaming tears, and choking sobs half 
suffocated her as she ran. Oh, yes, she was angry, 
very angry with him ! but was there any satisfaction 
in that anger ? For we know that ‘ to be wroth with 
those we love doth work like madness in the brain,' 
and there is perhaps no pain so acute and so terrible 
to a loving heart. For anger cannot kill love, it only 
warps our best feelings and blinds us for the time to 
reason and to justice, whilst to all such violent emo- 
tions a reaction is sure to come in time. But, for the 
moment, Hermione was beside herself, she was that 
infuriated thing, ‘ a woman scorned,’ and the world 
itself seemed too small to contain her vows of ven- 
geance. She repeated to herself that he deserved 
every word she had said to him, for all her wounded 
vanity was in arms within her. 

Not a hundred yards from the place where she had 
parted from him, she ran suddenly almost into the 
arms of her grandfather and uncle, who had been 
following her at a discreet distance, but who had 
hurried forward upon seeing that she was talking to a 
IS9 


i6o 


A DIFFICULT MAITER 


stranger, and who were somewhat disappointed to 
find that the interview was already over. 

Sir Francis, however, had seen enough to make 
him thoroughly angry. 

Fle took the flying girl by the wrists and arrested 
her forcibly. 

‘What is the meaning of all this, Hermione?’ he 
inquired sternly. ‘ Who is that man you have been 
talking to ? Do you consider it respectable to pick 
up strangers and hold conversations with them in 
your morning walks?* 

‘ He is not a stranger, grandpapa ! ’ she answered in 
a low voice. ‘ I have known him for years.’ She was 
still trembling from head to foot, and her breath came 
in quick, sharp gasps. 

‘ And tears, too ! Why, what has the fellow been 
saying to you to cause this agitation ? Has he in- 
sulted you, pray ? ’ 

‘ Oh, no, no, no I ’ she cried emphatically, although 
but a moment ago she had almost told Percival to his 
face that he had ; but therein lay the contradictious- 
ness of woman’s nature. 

‘Then explain this unladylike exhibition of feel- 
ing ! ’ said Richard Deverell, with cold contempt, 
speaking for the first time. 

But neither did that remark please the old gentle- 
man at all. 

‘ I do not see anything unladylike in it exactly,’ he 
said, turning testily to his son. ‘ Of course if, as 
Hermione says, she has known this — this person 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


i6i 


some time, it makes a considerable difference in 
her conduct/ 

Hermione quietly slipped her hand under her 
grandfather’s arm as he spoke, and perhaps Sir 
Francis thought that he had been too lenient, for 
he went on irascibly, ‘But of course it was highly 
imprudent and foolish of her ; and as to crying about 
him, I should like to know what on earth there is to 
cry about ! ’ 

They were all three walking together back to 
Berkeley Square. Fudgy, baulked of more than half 
his usual morning’s run, following dejectedly behind 
them, with lowered nose and limp, uncurled tail. 

Hermione wiped away the traces of her tears and 
choked down her sobs. She made no further excuses 
and explanations. She said to herself that she would 
not speak another word in the presence of her uncle. 
It was better to be silent. It was not a long way 
back to the house, and when they got into the hall 
she said to the old man, — 

‘ I should like to speak to you alone, grandpapa, 
please.’ 

They went into the empty dining-room together, 
and shut the door, and Richard Deverell, much to 
his disgust, was left outside. He went upstairs in a 
very bad temper to his wife’s boudoir. 

‘ After all, the thing has been a dead failure ! ’ he 
cried discontentedly, as he flung himself into a low 
chair. ‘ The man was there fast enough, but he was 
just walking away from her as we came in sight of 


L 


i 62 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


them, so we never saw him properly, or caught them 
together ; it’s the most confoundedly bad luck ! ’ 

‘ Serves you right, Richard ! ’ was all the pity he 
got from Lady Catherine. 

‘ I daresay. You always say that ! And now, to 
make matters worse, though my father was as angry 
as possible about it at first, now she has taken him 
into the dining-room alone, and I daresay she will 
wheedle him into a good temper again in no time.’ 

‘ I am sure I hope she will, poor girl ! It would 
be dreadful for her if Sir Francis would not forgive 
her.’ 

‘ He actually promised me last night that he would 
chuck her altogether if it was true that there was a 
low entanglement, but though he saw it with his own 
eyes, I am sure I don’t know whether he will keep 
his word.’ 

‘ Why, what would become of the girl if your 
father gave her up ? Would you have her to live 
with us ? ’ 

‘Certainly not. She might beg her bread in the 
streets before I’d keep her ! ’ 

‘ And she is your own brother’s child ! Really, 
Richard, you sometimes are very funny.’ That 
silenced him. He bounced out of the room more 
quickly than he had come into it, and made no more 
confidences to his unsympathetic wife. 

Meanwhile, standing face to face downstairs in the 
dining-room. Sir Francis Deverell and his grandchild 
had the whole matter out between them. 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 163 

‘You have deceived me, Hermione,’ said the old 
man, sorrowfully. 

‘ No, grandpapa, not intentionally, only I met him 
again.’ 

‘ Then it was the same man, the man you promised 
me to give up ? ’ 

‘Yes, it was Percival Green,’ she answered in a low 
voice. 

There was a brief silence. The old man was fight- 
ing something out in his own heart. 

‘Look here, my girl,’ he said at length, with an 
evident effort, ‘ let us talk this matter over quietly. 
You say this — this gentleman ’ — the word seemed to 
stick in his throat — ‘ is on the stage ? ’ 

‘ No, he has left that now. He has found employ- 
ment on a weekly magazine, and he is going to write 
a book.’ 

‘Ah, a scribbler! a literary hack! That is, if 
possible, worse. But still, if your heart is set upon 
him, my dear, and I can manage to put him any- 
how into a position more worthy of you, why, I 
don’t want to — to — be harsh, and if your heart is 
so set on this man, why, I’d rather sacrifice all my 
own wishes and hopes, Minnie dear, than make you 
unhappy.’ 

If only Richard Deverell could have heard him ! 
As for Hermione, she flung herself upon her grand- 
father’s breast in a passion of gratitude. 

‘ Oh, dear, darling grandpapa ! how good you are ! 
How much I love you for saying that ! But alas 


164 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


alas 1 it is no good, it is too late ! Percival Green 
and I have parted for ever and ever ! ’ 

‘We could, perhaps, summon him back again,’ 
suggested Sir Francis, with a smile. 

‘ No, no ! it is quite impossible 1 he has refused to 
be bound to me — flung back my love in my face — ’ 

‘ The devil he has ! confound the fellow’s impu- 
dence! How dare he?’ cried her grandfather, 
excitedly. 

Hermione burst into tears. 

‘ It is true — quite true I ’ she cried distractedly. 
‘ He has rejected my love I He told me that he 
hoped I should marry someone else, and that he 
would never marry me. Oh, grandfather, he does 
not want me I What shall I do ! what shall I do 1 ’ 
and in a paroxysm of despair she slipped out of his 
arms on to a couch and lay face downwards, sobbing 
convulsively, her head buried in the cushions. 

‘ I never heard such astounding impudence in the 
whole course of my life ! ’ cried the old man, furiously. 
‘Refused you? rejected your love? told you he did 
not want you ? what can the fellow mean ? A low, 
underbred creature like that “not want” Miss 
Deverell of Deverell Place I Great heavens I the 
man must be a veritable scoundrel I and a lucky 
escape you have had, Hermione. For heaven’s 
sake, let us hush up this miserable and disgraceful 
business I Not a word of this must be known to 
your uncle and aunt. And do — why, bless my soul ! 
my dear child, what you must do is hold up your 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


65 


head, and wipe away those tears, and resolutely 
forget this wretched man who is unworthy of 
another thought. Do as the fellow said, forget him 
and marry somebody else. Come, come, my dear, 
you must not give way like this, the man is not 
worth those tears.' 

He raised her tenderly, and held her to his heart, 
wiping away her streaming tears with his own hand- 
kerchief in a simple, pathetic way that touched her 
deeply. 

‘ Remember that your father’s blood is in you,’ he 
continued. ‘You must rouse yourself to realise your 
pride of race and your woman’s dignity, that come to 
you through a long line of pure and noble women.* 

‘ And through my mother, too ! ’ she said, catching 
something of his spirit and raising her tear-laden eyes 
to his. ‘ Oh, grandpapa ! you did not know her, but 
she would have said exactly what you say to me, she 
would have bid me die rather than sink ignobly and 
basely beneath the burden of this humiliation.’ 

‘ There’s my own brave girl ! ’ cried Sir Francis, 
joyfully, not at heart sorry, perhaps, that fate had 
intervened to prevent his generous offer from being 
accepted ; for, of course, it was his love for the girl 
that had made him for a moment contemplate the 
possibility of granting her heart’s desire, and it is 
probable that he would soon have repented of the 
impulse which had led him to make so rash a 
proposition. 

At this moment the footman entered the room 


i66 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


carrying a silver salver, which he presented to 
Hermione. 

It was Charles Irvine’s card. 

‘Mr Irvine wishes to know if he could see you 
alone for a moment, miss, as he wants particularly 
to speak to you.’ 

Hermione turned pale. It was like an omen of 
evil to her that this man should seek to see her at 
this moment. Her eyes met her. grandfather’s in 
mute inquiry. 

‘ See him, my dear, by all means. Our good 
Charles should always be welcome to you and to 
me, when we remember all he has done for us; I 
can never cease to be grateful to him for saving my 
little girl’s life. Yes, see him by all means. I am 
just off to my club. I must go down to Deverell 
again by the evening train ; but I will see you again 
before I leave town.’ 

‘ Grandpapa, take me home with you,’ cried 
Hermione, with a sudden impulse. ‘ I am tired of 
London, I am tired of the streets and the noise, I 
want to be in the country alone with you ; take me 
home.’ 

He clasped her once more to his heart. He was 
pleased that she spoke of Deverell *as ‘ home,’ and 
touched by her evident desire to return with him. 

‘ Very well,’ he said, as he kissed her fondly, ‘ pack 
up your boxes and I will take you back this evening ; 
but upon one condition only — you will see Charles 
Irvine now as he wishes.’ 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


167 


‘Yes, I will see him,’ she answered. 

A few seconds later, Hermione was alone in the 
room, and Charles Irvine was ushered in. A deep 
contrition and humility was in his whole aspect; he 
bent low before her, he did not venture to take her 
hand, he seemed scarcely to dare to lift his eyes to 
her face. No one knew better than he did how to 
assume airs of penitence. 

‘ I have come,’ he said in a low voice, ‘ to cast 
myself upon your mercy, and to entreat your for- 
giveness for my abominable conduct. I have no 
excuse to offer, save that I was mad for the moment, 
and nothing to say in extenuation of my offence 
but that I am consumed by so passionate a 
love for you, that I lost my head and my common 
sense.’ 

Hermione made no answer. Her colour rose, but 
she felt that her anger and her indignation were not 
so great against him as they ought to have been ; for 
is a woman ever really very angry against a man 
who sins for love of herself? 

‘Believe me,’ he went on in a trembling and 
broken voice, ‘ I would not have harmed a hair of 
your head, I respect and honour you too much, and 
base though my conduct may have appeared to you 
and to others, my motives were only those of the 
deepest love and reverence. Oh, Hermione, will you 
not forgive me?’ 

Another silence — Hermione could not speak. In 
the face of this declaration of love no words would 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


1 68 

come to her. She feared to say too much to commit 
herself. She trembled very much. 

‘ I ask for nothing/ he pleaded, ‘ but to be restored 
to your favour. Oh, Hermione ! for the sake of 
what I once did for you.' 

‘ Say no more, I forgive you/ she answered 
quickly, for that was an appeal she was powerless 
to resist. ‘ I believe that you are sorry, and I will 
forget your offence.’ 

But even as she said the words, her heart sank 
coldly within her. 

Was not this man her fate, her doom ? and had 
she not with her own lips spoken that which must 
surely be the beginning of the end? 


CHAPTER XVI 


Three months have passed away. It is early March ; 
March with its cold winds and bleak days, that yet 
have now and then a breath of coming spring in 
their bleakness. There are rows of white snowdrops 
coming up in the straight garden borders, and here 
and their a timid floweret; purple hepatica, or 
golden crocus, struggling into blossom under the 
more sheltered corners of the grey old walls of 
Devcrell Place. Hermione Deverell sits in her 
grandfather’s study busy writing at a corner of 
the table. The old man is reading his morning 
paper hard by in his deep arm-chair, but he is not 
too deeply engrossed to glance up now and then 
with fond and admiring eyes at the graceful young 
figure clad in dark green cloth, stooping over her 
work, or to watch for a passing glance and smile 
from the blue eyes he loved so well. 

A great deal has happened to Hermione since we 
saw her last. To her has come that great change 
of all in a woman’s life — her approaching marriage. 
She is engaged to Charles Irvine. 

How, and from what motives she had been at length 
induced to consent to what, at one time, she had posi- 
169 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


170 

tively sworn could never be, is a mystery even to 
herself. 

A variety of things had combined together to 
make her drift into what once she would sooner have 
died than given in to. 

It is often to the vague influences, no less than to 
the outward circumstances of our lives, that we owe 
the most momentous decisions of our existence, and 
for Hermione everything had been bent and swayed 
ia one direction. 

The absolute and final parting with the man she 
loved, her belief in his change of heart towards her, 
and her consequent wounded pride and hurt affections, 
had laid the foundation of it. Then came the almost 
daily intercourse with one whose every look and action 
breathed his ardent, although unspoken, adoration 
to her ; for no sooner had she returned to Deverell 
Place, than Charles took up his abode at Goldsbury, 
whence he came over nearly every day to see her. 
Little by little, he managed to overcome her dislike 
and repulsion towards him ; he was clever and subtle, 
and by degrees he re-established himself upon the 
footing which, upon that unlucky evening after the 
theatre, he had well-nigh lost for ever, and he never 
allowed her to lose sight of that sense of obliga- 
tion and that conviction of her own unpaid debt of 
gratitude towards him, which weighed upon her 
conscience. 

But more than all else, perhaps, she was influenced 
by her grandfather’s constant and openly-expressed 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


171 


wish that this marriage should take place. Sir 
Francis had - become perfectly infatuated with her. 
She was his darling, the child of his old age, his 
positive idol. His whole life was given up to her, he 
had no happiiiess apart from her. For her own sake 
he desired her to marry, for at any moment he might 
die ; and her future, after he should be gone, weighed 
upon him sorely. Richard did not love his niece, and 
although Lady Catherine might be good to her, Her- 
mione would never find a happy home in the house 
of an uncle who was jealous of her, and who would 
have given the world to disgrace and oust her. 

Sir Francis was aware that his son did not look 
kindly upon her, and he did not wish to leave her to 
his tender mercies. The child, he felt, must have a 
home of her own, and be established in a position of 
her own, before death came to part him from her — 
and where could such a home and such a position be 
better found than at Goldsbury ? only three miles from 
his own house, where he could still be with her almost 
daily as long as he lived, and where it would hardly 
seem like losing her, were she to be transplanted 
there. And so, to see her settled so conveniently 
close to him became the chief desire of the old man’s 
heart. 

He believed in Charles Irvine too, and had no doubt 
that he would make a most excellent husband. In the 
eyes of the world the new squire of Goldsbury 
Towers was an upright, honourable man, who had 
never done a mean action nor played a dirty trick in 


172 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


his life, and Sir Francis shared in the general opinion 
of him. 

Before his frequent and openly-expressed eulogiums 
of his neighbour, Hermione’s vague and intangible 
misgivings, and her mistrust of his sincerity, became 
gradually broken down and uprooted. 

She could not say anything positively against him, 
and, with the exception of his having endeavoured to 
take her to his rooms to supper, instead of back to 
her uncle’s house, she could bring no direct accusation 
against him. And he had been very contrite for 
this one offence ; and when she told her grandfather 
about it he made light of it, and prejudiced as he 
was in Charles’s favour, passed it off as a boyish 
freak which any young woman might very well 
forgive and forget. 

‘ He had got all his supper ready, and didn’t want 
his money thrown away,’ he said, ‘ that was about the 
meaning of it ! Oysters won’t keep, you know, my 
love ! I shouldn’t be hard on him on that account, 
Minnie I’ 

‘ But, grandpapa, do you think it was right or 
gentlemanlike to try and pull me out of the carriage 
when I had said I wouldn’t go in ? ’ 

‘Well, you didn’t go in, my dear; so you see no 
harm was done. But men are often hot-headed when 
they are in love with such a pretty girl as you, 
Minnie ! Besides, you did not go into the house, and 
a miss is as good as a mile.’ 

Hermione did not tell her grandfather that Percival 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


173 


Green had put a summary end to her doing so by 
knocking Mr Irvine down into the gutter ; and as Mr 
Irvine himself preserved a discreet silence upon that 
detail, Sir Francis remained ignorant of the fact. 

After that, it was no use at all telling him that Mr 
Irvine’s eyes were too close together, and that his 
nose was too long. Sir Francis only laughed at all 
such childish objections, and dismissed them as too 
trivial to be taken seriously. 

Charles came over nearly every day to Deverell 
Place; he brought her flowers and bonbons, bottles 
of scent, and dainty trifles to adorn her pretty 
morning-room. Did she express a desire to read a 
new book, or any curiosity concerning an old one out 
of print? That book, whether new or old, would 
without fail find its way to her table within a very 
few days. In short, Charles ‘paid court’ to his lady- 
love in a good old-fashioned manner, considering her 
pleasure in every trifle, and worming his way into the 
everyday details of her life more and more as the 
days and weeks went on. 

And all the time, not one word, one line, one sign, 
from the man whom she loved ! 

There came a time when the man who was always 
present grew to be almost a necessity to her, whilst 
the man who was always absent faded farther and 
farther away into a vague dream of past happiness, 
which it pained her more to recollect than to 
forget. 

If Charles did not ride over exactly at the expected 


174 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


hour, she missed him, felt irritated with him for the 
delay, and found the minutes pass slowly and dully 
until he came. 

And yet she did not love him the very least ! she 
never deluded either herself or him upon that point, 
it was only that he brought a certain amusement and 
piquancy into the calm of her daily life which she 
did not care to do without. There came a day when 
Charles, having, as he rightly judged, bided his time 
long enough, spoke out his passion to her in a plain 
and manly fashion. It was in the evening ; a few 
acquaintances had been dining at Deverell Place — the 
Rector of Allhampton and his wife. Colonel Stracey, 
the master of the fox-hounds, and his wife and 
daughter, and a young officer and his bride, who had 
driven over from the barracks, and in whose honour 
the little entertainment had been got up. Hermione 
played the hostess charmingly, although she had had 
but little experience in such matters. She sat at the 
head of her grandfather’s table, between the old 
rector and Colonel Stracey, as though she had been 
used to such a position all her life. Sir Francis 
looked often down the table at her during dinner, 
with pride and exultation. He watched her covertly 
as she sat there in her dark velvet gown with the old 
lace and diamonds he had given her. The somewhat 
old-fashioned dress brought out her youthful fairness 
of face and slenderness of figure into strong relief ; 
he saw how sweet was her smile, and how charming 
her manners to the two old men between whom she 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


175 

was seated, and who were both completely fascinated 
by her, and he said to himself as he looked, — 

‘ It is in her blood. Breeding always tells ; she is 
a true Deverell, every inch of her ! ^ 

Someone else, too, half-way down the table, looked 
and admired, ay, and longed too, with the whole 
strength of his soul. The sight of her in all the 
panoply of evening dress, of the diamonds that 
glittered in her shining hair and around her white 
throat, of the beautifully-moulded form in its setting 
of rich velvet, with the filmy old lace nestling upon 
her bosom, fired his blood and turned his head ; her 
beauty had never seemed to him to be so wonderful, 
so bewitching before. The light, the warmth, the 
atmosphere of weaTh and of grace that surrounded 
her, perhaps a little, too, the fumes of the champagne 
of which he drank a little more freely than was his 
usual habit, all seemed to drive him onwards and 
forwards with an irresistible impetus. . 

He wanted her — this beautiful and gracious woman 
— he wanted her for his own. He longed to set her 
in his own empty house, and to sun himself freely 
and unreservedly in the fascination of her presence. 
He had played a waiting game, but it seemed to him 
to-night that he had waited enough, and that flesh 
and blood could endure it no longer. 

When all the guests had taken their leave, and 
whilst Sir Francis, with o’d-fashioned ceremony, was 
escorting the last of the ladies to her carriage, Charles 
Irvine, who had been looking for his coat in the hal', 


176 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


suddenly turned back into the drawing-room again. 
Sir Francis was still making Kis parting speeches at 
the front door to the bride and her husband, and 
Hermione was standing alone by the fireplace gazing 
thoughtfully and a little dreamily into the flames. 
She had pulled off her long gloves, and one bare 
elbow leant upon the mantelshelf and her white hand 
supported her gold -brown head. 

When Charles came in she turned half round with 
a smile. 

‘You have forgotten something?’ she inquired 
kindly ; for he had already bidden her good-night. 

He came close up to her before he answered; some- 
thing in the expression of his eyes made her heart 
beat and her colour rise nervously. 

‘ Hermione,’ he said in a low voice of passion, *^how 
much longer am I to wait ? am I never to earn my 
reward ? never to get my answer from your lips ? ’ 

‘ Oh, why cannot we go on as we are ! ’ she said, a 
little impatiently ; ‘ we are very good friends, surely.’ 

‘ Friends ! friends ! ’ he repeated bitterly, ‘ is it pos- 
sible that you can believe that I can be satisfied with 
so poor and cold a thing as friendship ? I want your 
love, Hermione — your love ! ’ 

‘ And that I can never give you— you know that I 
cannot — never as long as I live ! ’ she cried sharply, 
with an almost angry eagerness. ‘ Put that thought 
out of your mind at once, and for ever.’ 

‘You are indeed hard and cruel to me! Won’t 
you at least grant me some hope? Will you not 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


177 


accept the devotion I offer to you, and leave it to 
time to learn to love me?* 

She shook her head. Then a little compunction, 
the natural tenderness of a womanly nature, made 
her say more gently, — 

‘ Please forgive me if I wound you, but it is better, 
is it not, to speak the truth ? When you talk about 
friendship, about affection even, I can understand — 
but when you speak of love — ’ and turning away with 
a quivering lip, she left the sentence unfinished. 

He took her hand and raised it to his lips respect- 
fully and humbly. 

A sense of remorse at her own ingratitude for his 
devotion made her turn to him anew. 

‘ I am very ungrateful, I know, but, believe me, 
I am not insensible to the affection you offer me. 
Only I cannot — cannot love either you or anyone 
else ever again ; all that is over for me. Ah, why do 
you not forget me? There are many women who 
might love you and be more to you than I can be.’ 

‘Not one — not one!’ he answered fervently. ‘I 
had sooner win you without any warmer reward than 
your esteem, than possess the whole heart and soul of 
any other woman upon earth.’ 

Just at that moment Sir Francis re-entered the 
room, and Charles, with a ready perception of where 
his strongest plea lay, turned to him with a frank 
candour that was not without attraction to the girl 
he was wooing. 

‘ Sir Francis,’ he said, ‘ be on my side. I am asking 

M 


178 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


Hermione to be my wife ; will you not give me leave 
to win her ? ’ 

‘My dearest child^ there is no man on earth to 
whom I would sooner give you than to Charles 
Irvine,’ said Sir Francis, and he came and stood 
between them upon the hearthrug, taking a hand 
of each in his, and pressing them warmly ; then 
Hermione felt that the ground was slipping away 
beneath her feet, and that she was falling — falling 
she knew not where. 

‘Oh, give me time, give me time,’ she pleaded 
brokenly ; ‘ I cannot think, I cannot decide ; give 
me time.’ 

‘I will give you a week/ said Charles Irvine, and 
then he went 


CHAPTER XVII 


The Mis3 Irvines had been abroad ; they had drifted 
about aimlessly from place to place for some weeks 
after leaving London, until suddenly Laura’s health 
collapsed altogether, and she fell seriously ill. They 
had been on their way home, and it was actually 
on the last stage of their return journey that this 
calamity befell them. Lollie was laid up at Amiens. 
The quiet French cathedral town with its dead- 
alive streets, and its beautiful silent church, with the 
roar of the trains all day long, as they rush past 
it Paris-ward and England-ward, is perhaps one 
of the most out-of- the- world places that can be 
imagined. Hardly any travellers stop at Amiens — 
not in the winter months at least — when the crowds 
are all hurrying back to London, or else on to Paris, 
the gay, the bright, the beautiful, with no thought for 
the quiet, sleepy towns that fly past them as they 
hasten southward. Neither would the Miss Irvines 
have stopped here, but for the fact that Lollie felt so 
ill on the journey from Paris that it became impos- 
sible for her to proceed any further. She was carried 
out of the train in a dead faint, and conveyed to the 
best hotel the town could boast of ; and bad indeed 
179 


i8o A DIFFICULT MATTER 

was that best! A little fussy French doctor came 
and stood over her, and looked at her through his 
spectacles and twirled up his fierce little grey 
moustache as he looked, and he ordered ‘tisanes’ 
and ‘potions,’ and finally had recourse to bleeding 
and leeches, in order to diminish the fever in her 
blood. Yet still the poor woman tossed and turned 
upon her pillows, and still she muttered and moaned 
in the unconscious ravings of delirium. 

Over and over again, bending low to listen to the 
quick, confused words that fell from her burning lips, 
Annie caught the name of the brother who had dis- 
graced them all and driven them in exile from their 
father’s house, and whom she believed to be dead. 

‘Val — Val can’t forgive me I he can never forgive 
me ! It was for your sake, Charles, I did it ; after 
all, I loved you most ; someone must have suffered 
and Val was young, he could go away ; a brother one 
can lose, but not a husband — not a husband I ’ 

All this, to Annie who knew nothing save that Val 
had forged his father’s name upon a cheque, and that 
Charles had given his uncle information of it in time 
to prevent the cheque being presented at the bank, 
was sufficiently incomprehensible, but there were 
things that were even more bewildering to her 
startled ears. 

One night, after having been more restless and 
feverish than usual, probably in consequence of the 
medical treatment she had undergone at the merci- 
less hands of Monsieur Solie, Lollie sprang up in 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


i8i 


her bed with a wild and despairing cry, and reached 
out her arms towards a corner of the room as though 
she saw someone standing there in the gloom of the 
bare little hotel chamber, and there fell from her lips 
the most piteous and heart-rending appeal. 

‘ Charles, my darling, my own, you cannot desert 
me; you cannot leave me! You shall not, I say you 
shall not marry another woman, whilst I am alive 
you shall not ; I am your wife — you know that I 
am your wife!* A moment of terrible silence. 
Annie went to her bedside to calm and soothe her, 
and tried to induce her to lie down again, but the 
sick woman kept her eyes fixed in a glassy stare 
upon the same corner of the room, as though she 
saw someone standing there, and as if listening for 
some ghostly answer to her words. 

Then once again she broke out. ‘What is that 
you say? that you are nothing to me? that I am 
not your lawful wife ? Ah ! take care ! take care ! 
don’t try me too far ! remember that there are 
the letters ; Val has them, I gave them to him to 
keep. Val and I together, we could be your ruin, 
your ruin, Charles Irvine, ruin, ruin!* Her voice 
died away into confused mutterings and meanings, 
and she fell back exhausted and weak upon the 
pillows. 

But Annie’s heart turned cold and sick within her. 
Had they any meaning, those wild ravings of a dis- 
traught brain? Was there any sense or sequence 
in them? Was it Charles whom Lollie called her 


i 82 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


husband? and what were the letters to which she 
alluded? and why did she go on talking about Val 
as if he were alive? Val who had been dead years 
ago, and buried in an unknown grave ! 

A few days later, Lollie’s illness took a turn for 
the better ; a crisis came, and the fever left her. For 
some days she lay quite still, weak and prostrate, but 
perfectly conscious and calm, and there was no further 
danger for her life to be apprehended, nothing to do 
but to give her wine and soup, and to keep up her 
strength in every conceivable way. 

Annie did not venture to question her as to the 
meaning of the things she had talked about during 
her delirium, but she thought about them a great 
deal. 

One afternoon, when she was really much better, 
Lollie said to her suddenly, ‘ Did Charles come and 
see me when I was ill, Annie ? ’ 

‘ Charles ! no, certainly not. No one has been here 
but me. What makes you think that?’ 

‘ Because I saw him,’ she answered gravely. 

’ My poor Lollie, you have been very ill, you know, 
and people fancy things when they are ill. You did 
certainly talk about Charles in your ravings, and one 
day you called out as if you saw him. But it was all 
a delusion, my dear, he was not here.’ 

‘ He might have come,’ she said in a low voice, as 
she lay back feebly upon her pillows with closed 
eyelids. 

Annie sat watching her silently. Poor face, so 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


183 


thin and worn ! the face that had once set men’s 
hearts beating with its beauty and its fascination! 
Who would give it a second look who saw it now ? 
Surely, thought Annie, no woman ever appeared so 
old for her age as Lollie did, or ever lost the 
brilliance of beauty so entirely and so early! 

Then, as she watched her, she saw two great tears 
come welling out from under the drooping lashes, 
and trickle slowly down over the sunken cheeks, till 
they fell with a little hollow sound upon the pillow. 

The sight of those tears went to the elder sister’s 
heart. 

‘If I told her what I saw in the paper yesterday,’ 
she thought, ‘ would it not be true kindness in the 
end ? It might help her to put him out of her mind 
entirely. Perhaps if she knew there was absolutely 
no hope for her, she might cease fretting after him.’ 
Then she rose softly and went away for a few 
minutes into her own room. 

Presently she came back to the sick-chamber 
carrying some English papers in her hand. 

‘ I had a budget of letters from England yester- 
day,’ she said, as she took her place again by her 
sister’s bedside, ‘and there were some papers, too, 
that came with them.’ 

‘Yes,’ said Lollie, faintly Her eyes were still 
shut, and the talk about letters and papers did 
not appear to interest her. 

‘ There were some bits of news in the papers,’ con- 
tinued Annie, in a brisk, matter-of-fact voice. 


184 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


‘ There generally are — in newspapers/ retorted 
Lollie, with a faint vestige of a smile hovering about 
the corners of her white lips. 

‘ Ah, but this was — well, personally interesting to 
us. It concerned someone we know.’ 

Lollie opened her eyes. ‘ What was it ? ’ she asked, 
with a little awakening interest in the subject. 
‘Whom does it concern?’ 

‘ Shall I read the paragraph out to you, dear ? ’ 

Poor Annie ! her notions of breaking a piece of 
bad news gently to an invalid were not perhaps of 
the highest order. 

‘ If you like/ said Lollie, still not realising in the 
very least the sort of thing that was coming. 

Annie rustled the papers about until she found a 
Morning Post of a week old that contained the news 
she spoke of, then, clearing her voice with a little 
preparatory ‘ ahem,’ she proceeded to read the para- 
graph. 

‘ A marriage is arranged, and will take place early 
in April, between Charles Irvine, Esq., of Goldsbury 
Towers, Southshire, and — ’ 

She never got any further. A wild scream from 
the bed interrupted her, a scream so loud and so 
piercing that it brought the little maid flying down 
from her attic above, and the landlady stumping up 
the bare stone staircase from below to see if anybody 
was being murdered. Lollie fell into a sort of fit. 
She plucked at the bedclothes, she sat up in bed, she 
tore at the collar of her nightdress, she ran her hands 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


185 

wildly through her thin, pale locks, and all the time 
she screamed and gasped, and sometimes she laughed 
in a manner horrible to listen to. 

‘ She is in violent hysterics ! ’ exclaimed Annie, 
wringing her hands in despair, and she flew to the 
water-jug and half drowned her sister with water. 

‘ Mais non^ mais non' cried the landlady, in alarm. 
* Ce n'est pas VhystirUy dest Vapoplexie ! il faute chercher 
Monsieur Solie^ elle se meurt ! ' 

At these terrifying words, Annie flung on her 
bonnet and cloak, and rushed out of the house in 
quest of Monsieur Soli^ ; but no sooner was she gone 
than Lollie seemed to become suddenly calm, and 
motioned the landlady and the little femme de chambre 
to leave her room, which' they both most thankfully 
did without further delay. 

As ill-luck would have it, Monsieur Soli^ was out 
on his rounds. Annie was sent from his house right 
to the other side of the town, only to find that he 
had that very moment left the house, and had gone 
on somewhere else. She followed him, of course, as 
fast as her trembling limbs would carry her, but from 
this place also he had gone on to another. It was 
in this way nearly an hour before she caught him 
and brought him back with her to the hotel. 

When they got upstairs into the sick-room, her 
horror and .dismay may be imagined when she dis- 
covered the bed empty, the room disordered and 
upset, and Lollie utterly and totally vanished. 

She must have got up immediately. She had 


i86 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


taken with her one small bag with a change of 
clothes, some money that had been lying on the 
mantelpiece, and had left behind her a note propped 
up on the dressing-table, addressed to her sister. 

* I am much better ; don’t be alarmed ; the attack 
has quite passed away. I must go home to England 
immediately ; there is no time to be lost. Will meet 
you in the old rooms near Portman Square. Go and 
wait there till I come.’ 


CHAPTER XVIII 


During that week of her probation, what agonies of 
indecision, what tortures of retrospection and of in- 
trospection did not Hermione undergo! There were 
whole nights, when lying awake upon her bed, she 
told herself that she loved Percival Green as much, 
ay, more than ever, and that whilst he lived she 
w'ould never marry another man on earth, followed 
again by long hours of sober daylight, when she re- 
membered that Percival was as much lost to her as 
though he were dead, and that Charles Irvine cer* 
tainly adored the very ground she stood upon, and 
was quite likely to prove the best and most devoted 
of husbands. And then Sir Francis, as was natural, 
did not waste his time during that storm-tossed week 
of doubts and vacillations. He was never tired of 
pleading and of persuading, of setting before her all 
the worldly advantages of the match, and all the 
personal happiness he himself would derive from the 
fulfilment of his fondest dream. 

And so it was perhaps a foregone conclusion that 
it should be so, for she who hesitates is more often 
than not lost. In the end she consented, and the 
engagement was proclaimed openly in the papers, 
187 


i88 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


and, as it were, upon the house-tops of the county 
of Southshire. 

When these public steps have once been taken, it 
becomes almost an impossibility for a young woman 
to draw back from an engagement into which she 
has entered deliberately, and of her own free will. 

Perhaps, indeed. Sir Francis and Mr Irvine secretly 
reckoned upon this fact to render their position secure. 
Letters of congratulation poured in on every side, 
and were presently followed by boxes and parcels 
of all sorts and kinds — the wedding presents. Many 
of these came from people whom Hermione did not 
even know by name, but who were curiously anxious 
to call attention to their own existence, remembering, 
no doubt, that Mr and Mrs Irvine of Goldsbury would 
hold a not unimportant position in the county, and 
that their house would presumably be a good one 
to be invited to. 

A young lady cannot send a wedding present back 
to its donor merely because in the background of her 
mind she has a doubt as to whether or no she will 
not break off her engagement at the last. So she 
accepted the gifts, and wrote pretty little notes of 
thanks for them, and every one of them seemed to 
her but another nail driven into the coffin of her 
fate ! 

She was neither specially miserable nor specially 
remorseful. Things went smoothly after her engage- 
ment. Everybody was pleased and kind to her; 
even her uncle thought it wiser to conceal his annoy- 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


189 


ance, and to put a good face upon what he could 
not prevent, and congratulated her warmly and affec- 
tionately. 

The trousseau was ordered upon the most lavish 
scale. The Irvine family diamonds were sent to be 
expressly reset for her. The settlements were satis- 
factorily drawn up, and the marriage day was fixed. 

And so to-day Hermione sits in her grandfather’s 
study writing out the invitation notes for her own 
wedding. 

She is quite calm and composed. It does not quite 
seem to her as though what she is doing has anything 
to do with herself — it is as though some other were 
the bride, and she only an indifferent and uninterested 
spectator. Sometimes again it appears to her as 
though she has lost all power of feeling at all. She 
is not unhappy, neither on the other hand is she 
happy ; she is simply neutral I 

‘ Have you put down the Newtons, Hermione, on 
your list?’ 

‘Yes, grandpapa.* 

‘And the Searles? I should not like them left 
out ; they were old friends of my poor wife’s. And 
there are some Deverell cousins in Yorkshire who 
must be invited. It will be a mere form, no doubt, 
as it will be too far for them to come, still they will 
like the compliment to be paid to them, and if there 
is a special train from Waterloo to convey down the 
London guests, even the Talbot Deverells might 
think it worth their while to come.’ 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


190 

* I will send them an invitation, grandpapa. Have 
you the address ? ’ 

‘You will find it in my book of addresses in the 
right-hand drawer.’ 

Hermione sought for it obediently. It did not 
signify to her whether the Talbot Deverells came 
or did not come to her wedding. She did not know 
them ; she did not indeed know one in ten of the 
invited guests. It pleased the old man to ask a 
crowd of people ; as to her, it neither pleased nor 
displeased her. She was simply indifferent. 

When she had written out all the envelopes, and 
filled in all the printed forms from the list of names 
before her, she made the letters up alphabetically 
into neat little packages ready for the post. By this 
time the afternoon was drawing in, and she could 
hardly see to write any more. She laid down her 
pen and stretched her arms up wearily behind her 
head. 

‘ I have done enough for to-day — I am tired,’ she 
observed. ‘ I think I will go out and get a breath of 
air before it gets dark ; will you come, grandpapa ? ’ 

‘ I think not. I have a little cold, and I don’t want 
to make it worse ; the wind is very biting to-day. Is 
not Charles coming to dinner ? ’ 

‘ Not to-day. Don’t you remember he had to go 
to town this morning on business ; he cannot come 
back till to-morrow morning, he told me.’ 

When she had put the things straight upon the 
table, and shut up the inkstand and put all the 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


191 


paper and envelopes back into the drawer, she passed 
behind the old man’s chair, and dropped a light kiss 
upon his forehead as she went by. He held her 
hand for a moment in his. 

‘Wrap up, Minnie, it is very chilly. You should 
have gone out earlier.’ 

‘ I never catch cold, grandpapa.’ 

‘ I must keep you well, you know. We cannot 
have our bride fall sick. What would Charley say 
to me? Hermione!’ He called her back as she 
was leaving the room. 

She stopped, holding the open door in her hand. 

‘Yes, grandpapa.’ 

‘ 1 am a foolish old fellow, I know, my dear, but 
sometimes when you are out I sit and fret a little.’ 

‘ Dear grandpapa ! why should you fret ? ’ and she 
came back to his side again. 

‘ Ah, why indeed ! There is nothing to fret about, 
is there? My little girl is quite — quite happy, is 
she not? She has no doubts — no misgivings now? 
All her future is bright, and clear, and sunny, is it 
not?’ 

The expression in his face was almost piteous in 
its tender anxiety ; he loved her so well, and some- 
times — sometimes he was not sure whether he was 
altogether glad that this great wish of his was about 
to be fulfilled ! He had his doubts. Great love is 
never at rest ; there is always an undercurrent of 
disquiet about it. 

Hermione smiled frankly and freely into his eyes. 


192 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


‘ Dearest,’ she answered, with a brave assumption 
of a cheerfulness she did not feel, ‘ do not fret your- 
self in the very leastest bit. I am quite, quite 
happy ! my future is assuredly a bright and un- 
clouded one ! ’ 

‘Charles Irvine is a good fellow, is he not?’ 

‘ From the bottom of my heart I believe that he is 
a good man,’ she answered seriously and soberly ; 
‘one ought not to want more.’ And then she went 
out and left him. 

An hour later she could scarcely have endorsed 
this favourable opinion concerning the man she was 
about to marry. 

The avenue of lime trees that led from Deverell 
House to the East Lodge was the pride and glory 
of the whole neighbourhood ; the double row of 
magnificent trees on either side had stood there for 
centuries, and even in winter time, when the sweeping 
branches were bare and leafless, and the moss at their 
feet was brown and faded, they formed a most impos- 
ing feature of the domain. Behind the trees a low 
hedge of evergreens, holly and laurel sheltered a 
narrow pathway but seldom used, and prevented the 
cattle in the park beyond from straying into the 
avenue and injuring the drooping boughs of the 
splendid trees. The whole length of it from end 
to end was a mile, and there was not a curve or a 
turn in the straight, white road with its wide margin 
of turf on either side, which reached from the hall 
door down to the East Lodge. 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


193 


In cold weather it was a favourite constitutional of 
Hermione’s, and it was here that she was soon walk- 
ing quickly and briskly for her little evening walk. 
It was getting dark ; there was that dim indistinct- 
ness^ in the closing day that is sometimes called ‘ owl’s 
light/ and that has a peculiar charm and fasci- 
nation of its own. The shadows were deep and 
vague, the trees weirdly mysterious, and the hedge 
behind them blackly dark under the witchery of 
the strange grey gloaming that foreshadowed the 
coming night. 

When she was about half-way down the avenue to 
the lodge, Hermione suddenly fancied that someone 
else was . walking alongside of her in the narrow 
pathway beyond the double row of lime-trees under 
the hedge of evergreens to her left. The odd thing 
was, that this idea came to her all at once. It had 
been comparatively full daylight when she entered 
the avenue from the house, and she was quite certain 
that there had been nobody there then, but for the 
last few minutes she had seemed distinctly to see 
the dark shadow of a pedestrian going with her, as 
it were, in the same direction as herself There was, 
of course, nothing wonderful in the fact of anybody 
walking along the avenue, either in the central road 
where she was herself, or in either of the side paths 
beyond the trees, for the people from the village 
were sometimes to be seen there, and if she had 
met and passed anyone on her walk, Hermione 
would not have given the circumstance a second 
N 


194 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


thought ; but what puzzled her was the suddenness 
of the feeling that came to her, that somebody was 
accompanying her, combined with the fact that the 
person, whoever it might be, was going in the same 
direction as herself. The pace, too, was identical, 
almost, it seemed, intentionally so, for presently she 
slackened her pace, and her mysterious companion 
apparently did the same ; then she tried walking very 
fast, and at once the footsteps by the hedge quickened 
their beats too, in time to her own. It was as though 
she were being purposely tracked or followed. Some- 
times, curiously enough, the footsteps behind her 
seemed to be double, as though there was an echo to 
them. She began to be very nervous, thoughts of 
burglars and drunken tramps came into her head, 
and she set to work to turn over in her mind what 
she had better do. She was now far more than half- 
way down the avenue, and much nearer to the lodge 
cottage than to the house. To push on quickly to 
the lodge was therefore her best chance of safety, 
and yet, if her mysterious companion — Oh, terrible 
thought ! were there two persons, and was there a 
gang of them ? Had they designs upon her life or 
her purse? Was it likely that they would wait to 
attack her until she reached a position where she 
would be comparatively secure ? 

This consideration at length made her decide upon 
a bold course of action. She was naturally a fearless 
girl. A long experience of the world, where, during 
her early years, she had been buffeted by poverty and 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


19s 


hard work, had rendered Hermione well able to 
protect herself from danger and from insult, and she 
felt a confidence in herself and in her own coolness 
and presence of mind in the face of difficulty, which 
might have been lacking to a more delicately-nurtured 
maiden. 

She determined to see for herself who and what 
was the person or persons who were pursuing her. 
With this end in view she quickened her pace very 
suddenly, so as to bring her about fifty yards in 
front of that dark and shadowy form in the side 
walk. She could see only one, and that reassured 
her slightly. Then she turned swiftly round, and 
struck across the grass towards the trees. 

Now, just at this point of the avenue, it so 
happened that there stood a small and dilapidated 
rustic summer-house, and on reaching the moss- 
grown path beyond the double row of lime trees, this 
summer-house was on her right hand, between herself 
and her pursuer. Just as she neared this small and 
dark shelter, to her intense surprise, a match was 
struck within its shelter with a sharp cracking sound. 
The tiny flame blazed up ruddily and brightly, making 
a small halo of yellow radiance in the surrounding 
gloom. 

Hermione stood stock still. It had taken but a 
few seconds for that flame to flare into life and then 
to die away again into darkness, but in those seconds 
what had she not seen ? 

The person who had followed her was no burglar 


196 A DIFFICULT MATTER 

but a woman, tall and graceful in form, and wrapped 
from head to foot in a long, flowing dark cloak, and 
the face of the striker of the match, as he issued from 
the ruined summer-house, was the face of the man 
who had told her that he was to-day in London — the 
face of her betrothed husband, Charles Irvine. 


CHAPTER XIX 


Hermione shrank back quickly, and crouched down 
beneath the dark shadows of the evergreen hedge, 
almost holding her breath so as not to be heard, 
while she listened with every thrilling nerve of her 
whole being. 

‘ Well ! what is this devil’s dance you are leading 
me?’ were the first words she heard in Charles 
Irvine’s voice, but a voice so different to that in 
which he was wont to speak to herself, that if she 
had not seen him plainly by the light of the match 
he had struck, she would hardly have recognised it. 

She heard the woman utter an exclamation of 
disgust and disappointment. 

‘ So it was you whom I passed as I came into the 
park ? ’ 

‘ Certainly it was. I have been keeping my eye on 
you for some time past’ 

‘ How did you find out that I was here ? ’ 

‘ Because I saw you get into the Allhampton train 
at Waterloo just as my train steamed into the station 
this morning. It wasn’t very likely that I was going 
to allow you to take a country excursion into South- 
shire by yourself without finding out what the dickens 
197 


198 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


you were up to! so I jumped into the guard's van 
just as you were starting, and came down again with 
you, and I’ve been following you about ever since.’ 

' I did not come to see you' said the woman, in 
a low, savage voice. She was cowed, but not 
vanquished. 

‘No, I’m quite aware of that, my dear,’ replied 
Charles, mockingly; ‘you came to see someone 
else, and to make mischief, of course.’ 

‘ Let me pass,’ said the woman, angrily, ‘ let me 
pass, I say. I’ve nothing to say to you.’ 

But Charles Irvine stood squarely in the narrow 
pathway and she could not pass him ; then she tried 
to dodge round him under the trees, but he was too 
quick for her, and caught hold of her by the arm so 
that she could not escape. 

‘ There is someone I intend to see here, someone 
I just want to say a word to,’ she gasped, trying to 
struggle free from his hands. 

‘ Oh, yes, I know 1 it’s the lady you were following 
down the avenue, you she-devil I You needn’t go 
into details, I know perfectly well what you are up 
to. You want to tell her some pretty little story 
about me! Didn’t I guess that was what you 
were up to, when I saw you get into the train at 
W aterloo ! I could have sworn it. That’s why I 
came back — to take care of you, my dear Lollie.’ 

‘Let me go!’ she reiterated. ‘I told you what 
you would have to expect if you did it. I will 
speak to her, I tell you, I will ! ’ 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


199 


‘ No, you won't. You will just wait here with me 
quietly, till that lady has come back down the avenue 
and gone safely into the house again. I shall hold 
you tight. You see you can’t get free, so you may 
as well stop wrestling with me. And if you utter 
one single sound I’ll gag you, or strangle you, 
perhaps that would be better still.’ 

Hidden in the dark shadows of the trees, Hermione 
listened to every word. She did not stir, for she was 
determined to hear more; she could understand 
absolutely nothing as yet of what she heard, nor 
could she conceive who this woman was who wanted 
to speak to her, nor what she could possibly have to 
say to her. 

The next words bewildered and puzzled her still 
more profoundly. It was the woman who spoke, 
but this time in a totally different manner. Her 
voice was low and gentle, almost tender, in its tones, 
and Hermione perceived that it was the voice of a 
lady. 

‘You aren’t going to marry her really^ Charles?* 

‘ Of course I am.’ 

‘ But you can’t — you can’t* 

‘ Can’t I ? Who is there to prevent me, pray ? ’ 

‘ Aren’t you afraid that — that — I shall ? * 

‘ Not in the very least ! ’ 

A moment or two of silence. Hermione could see 
the two dark forms as they stood close together under 
the trees, the man apparently still holding fast to the 
woman’s arms ; but it was far too dark now to dis- 


200 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


tinguish their faces, or even the distinct outlines of 
either figure. 

‘You love her, I suppose you think? or is it 
because she is Miss Deverell, and will have money, 
and what you want still more, a respectable connec- 
tion in the county — that you want to marry her? 
Answer me ! ’ 

‘ I haven’t the smallest objection to answering you 
when you speak nicely and reasonably. I will tell 
you all about it with pleasure. I am going to marry 
Miss Deverell in the first place,’ and he seemed to 
bring out the words with a certain fiendish delight in 
wounding and torturing her, ‘because I am deeply, 
desperately, madly in love with her.’ 

The poor woman uttered a smothered cry as though 
she had been struck to the heart with a knife, as 
indeed she had been. 

‘Do you want to know any more?’ he inquired 
mockingly. 

‘ I want to know all — all ! You can’t hurt me 
worse now.’ 

‘ Well, then, of course, as you say, she is Miss 
Deverell of Deverell Place, and she will have a good 
bit of money, and the Deverell connection is a 
desirable one — of course all that counts too. But 
don’t forget that it’s mainly and chiefly because I 
love her that I am going to marry her. Have you 
any objection?’ 

‘ Do you love her in the same way that you once 
loved me?’ she asked in a voice of pain and re- 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


201 


proach. ‘Just because your passion is set upon her? 
and when you are tired of her will you drop her, and 
spurn her, and disown her, just in the same way as 
you did me ? ’ 

‘ The two cases are widely dissimilar,’ he answered 
coldly and heartlessly. ‘Miss Deverell is a lady of 
the most spotless purity of mind and character. 
When a man loves a woman of that kind, she elevates 
and ennobles his whole being ; he is not at all likely 
to love her in the lower manner to which you allude. 
I could not possibly get tired of Miss Deverell, or 
cease to admire and to reverence her; whereas in 
your case — ’ 

‘ Ah, you brute, you black-hearted devil I ’ she cried 
furiously. ‘ When you know that I sacrificed myself 
for you ! when it was j/ou who were my undoing and 
my ruin ! Ah ! if Val could hear you — if Val could 
only hear you ! ’ 

‘ But Val is in heaven, you know, and even if he 
could hear me, he couldn’t possibly help you,’ he 
replied scoffingly. 

She groaned aloud. But the moment for telling 
him the truth had not yet come. 

‘ How is it possible that anyone can be so wicked 
and so ungrateful ! ’ she cried despairingly. 

‘ “ When lovely woman stoops to folly,” ’ he quoted 
lightly. ‘My dear girl, why go back upon ancient 
history? Why rake up these most unpleasant re- 
miniscences of the past ? Are they not all over and 
done with? What is the good of reviling and re- 


202 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


preaching me as if you were a fishwife and I a 
monster? If you were to go on talking from now 
to doomsday, would it make me love you, or cease 
to love Hermione Deverell ? * 

‘ Ah, but you forget one thing, Charles, you for- 
get one thing! Is there no such thing as Justice, 
do you suppose? No such thing as Revenge?’ 

‘ Pooh I mere child’s talk ; don’t be so melo- 
dramatic, my dear! Justice? — Well, do we any of 
us get justice on earth? Revenge? — It’s a five-act- 
tragedy kind of word, but it’s quite out of date in 
the nineteenth century ! Who believes in Revenge 
nowadays ? ’ 

‘ I do. I mean — if you will not do me justice — I 
mean to have my revenge.’ 

He laughed. He did not believe in her power 
of doing him any harm. He did not know that 
she had given to her brother’s keeping a fatal proof 
against him, which she had never destroyed. It 
was a letter in his own handwriting, written ten 
years ago, in which he had admitted his guilt ! 

As to what she might say to Hermione, he 
thought he could afford to laugh at that, only he 
did not want her to be frightened and disturbed 
or to have suspicions put into her mind about his 
character and antecedents. 

‘My dear Lollie,’ he said soothingly, ‘why can’t 
you drop all this high-flown nonsense and be 
sensible ? When you have one of these mad raving 
fits upon you, you are really not fit to be left to 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


203 


yourself. I am not going to let you out of my 
sight, my poor Lollie. So fond am I still of you, 
that I am going to take care of you to-night and 
see you safely back to town. I wish you would not 
struggle like this. I hurt you, do I ? Well, if you 
would only keep your hands still, I should not hurt 
you in the least. You don’t suppose I want to be 
rough to a lady, do you ? ’ 

‘ Then let me go, you false hypocrite, let me go ! ’ 
she panted. 

* That you may go and tell all your pretty little 
tales to Miss Deverell, and frighten her out of her 
wits ? No, thank you, I am not such a fool ! ’ 

‘ I intend to speak to Miss Deverell whether you 
like it or no. When she comes back along the avenue 
I shall call out to her and tell her to come here.’ 

‘ Do you suppose she will believe one word you 
say ? Besides, have I not told you that I will stop 
your speaking. There are means by which even a 
woman’s tongue may be silenced.’ 

For some minutes neither of them spoke. Perhaps 
Lollie was debating within herself how to turn the 
situation to her own advantage, or perhaps she was 
only physically afraid of his threats. Anyhow, her 
next words were in a different strain altogether. 

‘ Look here, Charles, I don’t want to injure you or 
ruin you. You must know that. If I wanted to do 
it, don’t you suppose I could have told the whole 
truth about that old story long ago? but I’ve no 
wish to do that.’ 


204 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


‘ Come, I am glad to see that you are getting more 
reasonable ! ’ 

‘ Only, you know, you must give up this marriage.’ 

‘ That is very likely. Why, the day is fixed, and 
the invitations will be all sent out this week.’ 

‘ I can’t help that. If you want me to hold my 
tongue you must break it off. If Miss Deverell 
knew about me she would break it off herself.’ 

Hermione crept closer and closer under the shadow 
of the laurels. All the rest of the conversation had 
been unintelligible to her, but here was something 
that she could grasp. This woman had some claim 
upon him. What was it ? 

‘ Why, on earth ! ’ cried Charles, with a mocking 
laugh. ‘ Who and what are you, to stand between 
us, I should like to know? You are nothing but a 
past love, a dead passion of my early years. Don’t 
you suppose that most men have some such story 
in their youth as that? Miss Deverell has plenty 
of common sense, and plenty of knowledge of the 
world. She would remain quite unimpressed by 
your revelations. You would only damage your 
own reputation, my dear, and you would fail to do 
me any injury at all.’ 

‘ All men do not have such a story in the back- 
ground of their lives as yours, Charles ! ’ 

‘ A good many have, I fancy, who marry, and 
become respectable husbands and fathers of families 
afterwards.’ 

‘ Yes, but there was a difference in your case.’ 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


205 


‘ As how, pray ? ’ 

‘ Because Lam your wife.* 

Hermione uttered a sharp, irrepressible cry of 
horror. 

Charles dropped Laura’s hands and turned quickly 
round. 

Lollie sprang forward. 

‘ It is you. Miss Deverell ! You have heard ? Well, 
it is true, true ! he has no right to*^ marry another 
woman. I swear to you that I am his wife ! He 
is bound to me — by every law of God and of justice 
he is mine ! and you shall not — ’ 

She never finished the sentence. With one furious 
blow Charles Irvine swept the unfortunate woman to 
the ground, and she fell like a stone at Hermione’s 
feet. 


CHAPTER XX 


‘You have killed her!* said Hermione, in a voice 
of horror, as she threw herself upon her knees by 
the side of the fallen woman. 

Charles was a little staggered himself by what he 
had done ; Lollie had fallen so flat, and lay so still 
and lifeless. 

‘ No, no,’ he said, and struck a match as he spoke. 
‘ I didn’t hit her hard. Don’t shrink away from me 
like that, Hermione I She is only stunned ; if you 
knew what that woman is — ’ 

‘ I mean to know who she is 1 ’ answered Hermione, 
in a cold, hard voice. 

‘ On my soul ! I was obliged to knock her down,’ 
he exclaimed earnestly, ‘ this woman is a dangerous 
lunatic. She would have done you a mischief. She 
is raving mad. I knew her years ago, when first she 
went out of her mind.’ 

‘ Don’t say any more now, help me to lift her.’ 
They lifted her between them in silence, and 
Hermione propped her up against her own shoulder 
and began to loosen the collar of her jacket and 
of her dress. 

‘ Now go to the house as quickly as you can, and 
206 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


207 


fetch help. Go round to the stables and tell them to 
bring the brougham at once.* 

‘ I cannot leave you here with a mad woman. If 
her senses returned, she might be violent.* 

* Go ! * was her only answer, in a voice so stern and 
contemptuous that he obeyed her in silence. 

Hermione was left alone with the insensible woman. 
She had no restoratives to administer to her, she could 
only watch and wait, and support the stranger’s head 
upon her arm. 

To her intense relief, she soon felt the beating of 
her heart, for Lollie was only stunned, and presently 
with a little shiver, following a long-drawn sigh, she 
came back to life. 

It was now so dark under the shadows of the 
trees that the two women could not see each other’s 
faces. 

As Lollie returned to consciousness she murmured 
the name of the man who played so fatal a part in 
the lives of both. 

‘ Charles ! * 

‘ It is not Charles. Charles is not here.* 

‘ Who are you, then ? * 

* I am Hermione Deverell.* 

‘ The girl he is going to marry ? * 

‘ The girl he was going to marry,’ replied Hermione, 
with an almost involuntary alteration of words. 

* Are you better now ? * she asked presently. 

* I feel much better. What happened ? Did I 
fall? My head aches; did I knock it anywhere?* 


2o8 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


and she put up her hand to her forehead in a 
puzzled way. ‘ I can’t remember.’ 

‘You fell down/ answered Hermione, quietly. 

‘ I remember now. I wanted to speak to you, and 
he did not want me to. He was very angry with me.’ 

Anything less like the ravings of an escaped 
lunatic in these questions and remarks of hers, it 
would be impossible to imagine. 

Hermione’s heart seemed turning into stone. 

‘Yes, you said you had something to say to me. 
Would you like to say it now?’ she asked, with a 
calmness which surprised herself. 

Lollie lifted herself up a little. ‘ Yes, yes ! ’ she 
said with a feverish eagerness, ‘ I will tell you now — 
I feel so ill, I might faint again. I had a fever a 
little while ago. I was not fit to travel, I suppose, 
only there was no time to be lost, and so I came off 
at once.’ 

‘Why did you follow me this evening? For it 
was you, I am sure, who were following me down the 
avenue. Why did you not come up to me and speak 
to me openly ? ’ asked Hermione. 

‘ Because I wanted to wait a little till it got darker. 
I did not want you to see me. I thought I should 
meet you on your way back.’ 

‘Tell me what you wanted to say/ said Hermione, 
gently. ‘ I am quite ready to listen to you.’ 

‘ I want to entreat you not to marry him ? * 

‘Charles Irvine, you mean? Why should I not 
marry him ? ’ 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


209 


* He has no right to marry anyone but me. Years 
ago he made love to me, and promised to make me 
his wife. I have sacrificed everything for that man, 
I have given him my life, because I always believed 
that in the end he would do me justice.’ 

‘ I heard you say that you are his wife. Is that 
true ? ’ 

‘ Legally, alas not ! but in the eyes of God he 
has no right to marry anyone else, for he went 
through a form of marriage with me once, and we 
lived together as man and wife. Oh ! Miss Deverell, 
I am sure you are good and honest ; you would not 
wish to stand between me and him, would you ? 
You would not destroy the last chance of happiness 
of a woman who has never done you any harm, 
would you ? It is to appeal to you that I have 
come here. You are young, and I am told that 
you are lovely ; life is all before you ; you have a 
happy home, and a grandfather who loves you. But 
I — I have nothing. I am no longer young. If 
Charles deserts me I have nothing left to live for. 
For years I have lived and breathed, and existed for 
that one thing only — the hope of his making amends 
to me for the injury he did me. He has always 
promised me that it should be so. I believe he 
meant to do it, for he is not all bad, and it was 
scarcely his fault that our marriage was not legal. 
He would have married me this winter, I think, if he 
had not met you, but you came and stole him from 
me. After he had seen you his heart went from me, 
Q 


210 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


he never cared for me any more. Oh, don’t take 
him from me! don’t take him from me! he cannot 
be so dear to you as he is to me ! ’ 

An uncontrollable passion of tears choked her 
voice, and she rocked herself to and fro in an agony 
of despair and grief. 

‘ Hush ! ’ murmured Hermione, soothingly. ‘ Don’t 
cry like that, you poor soul. No, I will not come be- 
tween you and him. God forbid that I should do so, 
or that for any advantage to myself I should wreck 
the life of a fellow-creature. If Charles has wronged 
you, it shall not be owing to me that he does not 
make you the reparation that is due to you. Be 
calm, I implore you, and be comforted. I will spoil 
no woman’s life, nor build up my own happiness upon 
the ruins of another’s ! ’ 

At this moment the brougham drove up the avenue. 

‘Come, let me take you to the house,’ said Her- 
mione. ‘ I will take care of you, and nurse you. You 
are not fit to be alone. Come back with me — ’ 

* No, no ! I cannot go to your grandfather’s house, 
it is impossible. I am much better now. If you will 
send me to the station in your carriage, I shall be 
grateful to you. I will get back to London ; I only 
came here to see you. I have done what I wanted 
to do. I will go back and trouble you no more.’ 

Hermione could not persuade her to come. She 
resolutely refused to go to Deverell Place. 

* I cannot tell you why, but there is a reason why I 
cannot go there. I cannot stay in this part of the 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


2II 


world. I only came to try and speak to you. Now 
I have done that and you have been good to me and 
promised me not to marry him, my object in coming 
here is fulfilled. Let me go, Miss Deverell. I had 
rather go straight back to London.* 

There was nothing more to be said, but to let her 
do as she wished. Poor, selfish Lollie, weak and 
selfish to the end ! For all she knew she might have 
been breaking Hermione’s heart by her fruitless 
revelations, but that never occurred to her. All her 
life long she had expected everyone and everything 
to give way to her, and it only seemed to her right 
and natural now that this girl’s young life should bt 
changed and altered so that she might still grasp at 
the shadow of a dead happiness which she had not 
the faintest chance of making her own. She went 
back to London feeling very ill in body, but quieter 
and happier in mind. She believed that by her after- 
noon’s work she had cleared away at least one 
obstacle to Charles’s return to her. If he could not 
marry Hermione Deverell, she thought, then surely 
he would come back to his old allegiance to herself! 

Meanwhile Hermione was walking back to Deverell 
Place alone under the darkening shadows of the 
avenue. Her lagging footsteps seemed leaden- 
weighted, , and bore her slowly and painfully back 
to her home. 

This discovery concerning Charles was a great 
shock to her. She had never, it is true, been in love 
with him, but she had learnt to like him, and latterly 


212 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


she had respected him and trusted him entirely. 
Now, the very foundations of her faith were shaken, 
and her belief in him was uprooted. Of the conver- 
sation she had overheard, there were many things 
that she could not understand, allusions to some 
secret, a third name mentioned, apparently that of 
a man who was dead, that conveyed no sort of 
meaning to her mind. But what she did see, and 
did understand, was clear enough to her. This un- 
happy woman had at some time or other been 
cruelly betrayed and shamefully deserted by Charles 
Irvine. Of that there seemed to be no sort of doubt 
whatever. 

Even in the darkness all by herself, Hermione's 
cheeks burnt with anger and disgust at the partial 
lifting of the veil of a disgraceful past. It was terrible 
to her to think that such things existed in the world, 
that such stories of sin were to be met with, where 
the woman has to bear all the punishment and all the 
bitterness, whilst the man goes scot free, untram- 
melled by conscience and unpunished by man to the 
end of his days. 

'Well, if to lose me be any punishment to him,’ 
thought Hermione, in her righteous wrath, ' then I 
will be the means of bringing home Charles Irvine’s 
sin to him.’ 

She remembered how he had said that he loved 
her, madly, desperately, devotedly, and she rejoiced 
to think that this was so — so that she might make 
him suffer the more. She had no compassion for 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


213 


him ; her heart was hard and cold as a flint. It did 
not seem to her that he was deserving of the smallest 
pity or consideration at her hands. The lie that he 
had told her concerning this poor woman, whose 
only fault towards him was that she had loved him 
too well, stirred her deepest indignation towards him 
and hardened her all the more against him. 

For he had tried to make her believe that she was 
mad ! An escaped lunatic, he had said ! Could any- 
thing be more cowardly, more entirely detestable ! 

‘ He is false and wicked ! ’ she said to herself as 
she walked ; ‘his heart must be black indeed to have 
added to the mountain-load of his iniquities so cruel 
a falsehood as that was ! ’ 

For there had been no sign of madness in the 
woman’s words or manner. And he had struck her ! 
struck a defenceless woman to the ground with such 
force that he had stunned her ! For that alone 
Hermione felt that she must hate him for ever with 
all the strength of her being. 

Had she not perhaps always hated him ? How 
was it that the natural revulsion of her upright and 
candid nature against all that was shifty and in- 
comprehensible in his, had not told her that to 
mate with such a man was absolutely and utterly 
impossible ? 

And then she recalled a hundred little things 
which during her brief engagement she had tried 
to forget or to exonerate in him. Little familiarities 
in manner, lapses of bad taste, chance words that 


214 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


betrayed a lack of principle and of rectitude of pur- 
pose ! — did they not all point the same way, and show 
what the man was really at heart? 

‘If he had not unluckily saved my life,^ she 
thought, ‘ I should have never had one lenient thought 
about him. I should have seen him as he is, 
and hated him from the first ! Oh, I have been 
blind indeed ! ’ 


CHAPTER XXI 


All these months, up in London in an obscure 
lodging, Percival Green had been earning his living 
hardly and with difficulty by the constant work of 
his pen, 

‘ Hard the labour, poor the gain, 

Of making money out of brain,* 

says an old adage ; and surely no man ever ex- 
perienced the truth of the saying more entirely and 
thoroughly than did, at this period of his life, our 
friend Percival Green. 

From morning till night, and often from night 
till morning, he toiled and slaved, putting his best 
thoughts, his freshest ideas, all the vivid energy of a 
young author who has talent, into words that the 
world of thought and intellect never saw or read, and 
that brought him in a miserable weekly pittance, 
which barely sufficed to keep him from starvation. 

He lived a life of the strictest seclusion ; he saw no 
one, knew no one, went nowhere, save to and fro to 
the different offices where he carried his daily labour. 
He was employed now on the staff of several daily, 
as well as weekly, papers, but because he was young 
ai5 


2I6 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


and poor, and his name utterly unknown in the world 
of letters, his work commanded but very low prices, 
and he was not paid one-quarter so much as many 
others who did not write nearly so well as himself. 

During these months of toil and drudgery, it was 
often a marvel to him in after years that he did not 
succumb altogether to the dreary hopelessness of his 
life. One thing, however, there was which sustained 
him and kept him from despair; at odd hours — and 
they were often the hours between midnight and sun- 
rise, after his daily task was finished — he worked 
steadily at his novel. He threw his whole soul into 
this work ; and it was a labour of joy and delight to 
him. What he wrote was his very best ; and in the 
writing of it he reaped a rich reward, for he lived so 
entirely in a new world of his own creation, that it 
effaced for him that material world of sorrow and 
loneliness into which fate had cast him. 

But for this work, and for the ambitions which it 
called into existence within him, Percival Green 
might well have died. But it did for him what 
nothing but mental effort ever can do for any of us; 
it carried him out of himself and above himself to 
that extent that it made him forget his own troubles, 
and filled him with a secret inner satisfaction which 
could have come to him from no other source. 

And the novel prospered and grew apace. The 
day came at length when, white with the intensity of 
his own emotions, just as the sun was rising above 
the red chimney-tops and across the sea of tiled and 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


217 


slated roofs of which his attic window commanded a 
boundless view, Percival Green laid down his pen at 
the conclusion of his last chapter, and felt that his 
work was accomplished. 

It was a book, he knew, which would either make 
his name and his fame, or else fall, as Genius has 
fallen over and over again, to the earth, unheeded 
and unknown, into a yawning chasm of oblivion and 
obscurity. 

All depended upon how Grey Dawn — such was 
the book’s name — was given to the world. 

Fortune befriended Percival Green for once. He was 
lucky enough to take his manuscript to a certain firm 
of publishers to whom he had no private introduction, 
but who held a well-earned reputation for intelligence 
as well as fair dealing. 

The book market happened to be flat. Nothing 
startling had astonished the world, or arrested the 
attention of the reading public for some little time. 

Mr Bright, the head partner of the firm of Bright, 
Clear & Chase, happened to be in his private office 
when Mr Green brought in his manuscript. With a 
few polite, but vague words, he undertook that im- 
mediate attention should be given to it, and dismissed 
the young author with no definite promise about it. 

In the ordinary course of things it would have gone 
in its turn to the reader, but it so happened that after 
Percival had left his office, Mr Bright put on his 
spectacles and glanced curiously at the first page. 
The opening sentences of the book arrested him power- 


2lS 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


fully ; he read on further, he became deeply interested, 
he turned over page after page with ever-increasing 
approval and delight. Finally he locked up the MSS. 
in the private drawer of his table, and when he went 
home that afternoon, he took it away with him, and 
sat up all night reading it. 

In a very few days’ time Percival Green learnt that 
his novel was accepted, and would be published im- 
mediately. 

The story of success is always wonderful; for in 
this hard world success is so rare, and failure so fre- 
quent, that the former never ceases to astonish one. 
One wonders why one man leaps at one bound to 
fame, and another for all his toil cannot accomplish 
anything at all. There is something in merit, of 
course, and yet it is not always merit that does it ; 
there must be luck, too. For the first time, he told 
himself, in all his life. Luck — that great factor of 
human achievement — ranged itself on Percival Green’s 
side. His book came out; it was well advertised, Mr 
Bright saw to that, and it was well got up, and attrac- 
tively presented to the public. It became the book of 
the day. Grejy Dawn was in everybody’s mouth, 
and soon lay upon everybody’s table. The reviews 
rang with its praises, fresh editions were called for ; a 
great statesman, who is also a great literary critic, 
wrote an article upon it in one of the leading monthly 
magazines, and Percival Green’s name and fame be- 
came instantly made and established. 

After that, no more penny-a-lining, no more toiling 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


219 


and slaving at mean and unprofitable drudgery. He 
consented, indeed, almost as a favour, to write a lead- 
ing article daily for one of the most important news- 
papers, and he kept up his connection with his original 
employers to the extent of contributing an occasional 
paper to their magazine. Beyond that, journalism was 
cut for ever, and Mr Green started on his career as 
one of the most remarkable and original novelists of 
the day — a career, it may be mentioned, where he was 
able to make his own terms, and had no difficulty in 
getting anything he asked for. 

On the evening of the day on which Laura Irvine 
went down to Deverell Place, in order to try and see 
Miss Deverell and appeal to her to break off her en- 
gagement with Charles, Percival Green, for the first 
time for a great many years, crossed the threshold of 
a large club in Pall Mall. Once he had gone with 
his father to dine at this very club when he was at 
home for the vacation, and his own name had been put 
down for it, his father as proposer, and a certain well- 
known noble as seconder. In the ordinary course 
of events his name would have come up for election 
about the time when his college career was ended. 
But one day the name had been erased from its place 
in the book of candidates, and no one had ever heard 
of it again. 

To-day, he went there as the guest of a very clever 
man, author of several popular works on natural 
history, who had invited him to dinner. 

He was a little shy as he entered the large, lofty 


220 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


hall ; he had, in truth, been somewhat doubtful about 
accepting the invitation at all, and had endeavoured 
to refuse it, but Mr D’Aubigny would take no denial. 
He had invited So-and-so, and So-and-so, he said, men 
of letters themselves, who were all anxious to meet 
the author of Grey Dawn, and in addition, a critic of 
the greatest importance, besides one or two others, all 
men of mark and talent, expressly to make his 
acquaintance. D’Aubigny would not allow him to 
refuse, and Percival, unable to state any good reason 
why he should not do so, was reluctantly forced to 
accept the invitation. But he looked about him nerv- 
ously as he entered the club. Should he meet any- 
body he had known in his former life ? he wondered. 
Would he run up against any of his old college 
friends ? and if so, would they recognise him ? Or, 
would seven years of work and privation, a changed 
name, and the rumour of his own death, render him 
proof against any chance of identification. Well, he 
must risk it. 

His host met him with enthusiasm. His other 
guests had already arrived. 

‘ Here he is ! ’ he cried, shaking him warmly by the 
hand. ‘Allow me,’ he said, turning to his other 
friends, ‘to introduce our new genius to you, the 
author of Grey Dawn, one of the most wonderful and 
delightful books of the day.’ 

‘ My dear Mr D’Aubigny, you overwhelm me ! I 
am unworthy of such praise, and in the presence of 
so many distinguished men.’ 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


221 


But they all shook hands with him, declaring that 
D’Aubigny was right, and that the book was a work 
of genius, and worthy of the highest praise ; and then 
they sat down to dinner. 

‘ VVeare an odd number — one short,’ said D’Aubigny, 
as he directed the waiter to remove one place at the 
round table. ‘ My friend, Charles Irvine, has tele- 
graphed that he is unexpectedly detained in the 
country by important business.’ 

Mr Green gazed fixedly into the plate of soup 
which had been put down before him. What an 
escape he had had ! 

‘ Charles not coming ? ’ cried a man opposite him. 
‘ What a disappointment ! he is always good com- 
pany, is old Charley Irvine ! ’ 

‘ The best of good fellows,’ cried another, tossing 
off his sherry ; ‘ here is to him ! I wish he were 
with us.’ 

‘ I never knew a man warm to good conversa- 
tion more thoroughly than Irvine does,’ remarked 
another. 

‘ Ah,’ laughed D’Aubigny, ‘ let us say did instead 
of does ! Irvine’s good companionship lies all in the 
past, I fear.’ 

* As how ? As wherefore ? ’ queried somebody. 

‘ Why, don’t you know,’ replied the host, ‘ poor 
Charley’s day is over ; he is going to be married.’ 

‘ Married ? ’ echoed almost every other man present, 
in divers tones of dismay and disgust And there 
went a groan round the cheerful little table. 


222 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


‘ It’s too true, I am sorry to say,’ sighed D’Aubigny, 
melodramatically, ‘another good man gone wrong! 
Why, alas I is jolly bachelorhood so often brought to 
such a melancholy end ? ’ 

‘ And when does the sad event take place, 
D’Aubigny? ’ 

‘Next month, I believe. No doubt I shall be 
bidden to the execution. I hear it is to take place 
in the country.’ 

‘ In what part of the world, may I ask ? * 

‘ In Southshire, his own country, you know. I 
believe the happy lady is a near neighbour of his.’ 

‘Will you kindly tell me,’ here said Mr Green, 
speaking for the first time, ‘what is the name of 
the lady whom Mr Charles Irvine is going to marry? ’ 

He addressed himself to D’Aubigny, and as the 
eyes of the host met those of the questioner, he was 
struck all at once with something he saw in the un- 
known young author’s face. 

‘ Why ! ’ he cried, ‘ what an odd thing ! As you are 
looking at me now I declare you are like Charles 
Irvine. Look, Blake ! ’ turning to a man on his right, 
‘isn’t there a strong look of Charley himself about 
Mr Green?’ 

‘ I noticed it the very instant he came in,’ answered 
Mr Blake ; ‘ there is a most remarkable resemblance, 
to my mind. Are you any relation to him, sir ? ’ 

‘ None whatever,’ answered Percival, whose face had 
reddened perceptibly under these personal remarks ; 
‘ but,’ turning to D’Aubigny once more, * you have not 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


223 


yet answered my question, Mr D’Aubigny — what is 
the name of Mr Irvine’s fiande?' 

‘ She is a grand-daughter of Sir Francis Deverell 
of Deverell Place, and her name is Miss Hermione 
Deverell.* 

For a moment the lofty room, the crowded tables 
round him, the waiters hurrying backwards and for- 
wards with steaming dishes, and the faces of the men 
who sat near him, all became faint and blurred in a 
confused mass before Percival Green’s eyes. 

Then in silence he bowed his head, whilst the 
stream of talk ran on around him, and in his secret 
heart he said to himself, — 

‘ Then may God help Charles Irvine, for as there 
is a heaven above us, the day of his reckoning has 
come at last 1 ’ 


CHAPTER XXII 


As Hermione opened the front door and entered the 
hall atDeverell Place, she met Charles Irvine with his 
hat and coat on, coming out. 

She drew back to allow him to pass her, but he 
stopped her and tried to take her hand. 

Hermione quietly put both hands behind her 
back. 

‘ I must speak to you,’ he said with agitation. 
‘Where is that woman? Have you brought her 
back ? I did not hear the carriage returning. I was 
just starting out to meet you.’ 

For a moment she was silent. She desired never 
to speak to him again, but, of course, this was 
practically impossible. With an effort she said to 
him, — 

‘ It is due to you that I should tell you how that 
lady is. Fortunately, she is much better, and by her 
own wish I have sent her to the station in the 
brougham, as she wanted to go back to London.’ 

‘And she told you — ? What did she tell you, 
Hermione ? ’ 

Hermione lifted her eyes, and looked at him 
fixedly. There was the stern judgment of condem- 
224 


A DIFFICULT MATIER 


225 


nation in those young eyes. He had often looked 
into them before, and had seen many thoughts and 
feelings chase themselves across their azure depths, 
thoughts and feelings that had not always been 
wholly satisfactory to himself, but never, never yet, 
had he seen in them that which was in them now. 
He felt himself to be condemned indeed. 

‘ Hermione, I entreat — I implore you ! ’ he cried 
with agitation, * do not condemn me unheard ! listen 
to me — give me a chance of righting myself. You do 
not know — * 

‘ I know quite enough,’ she interrupted in a cold, 
hard voice. ‘ I do not wish to know more.’ 

‘ Then you have believed the wild story of a mad 
woman against me ? ’ 

‘ That lady is not mad, not in the very least,’ she 
answered coldly. 

‘ Only perhaps at intervals — but one never can 
depend on what she says — she is dangerous. She 
believes that she has a sort of claim upon me — but if 
you would only let me explain — ’ 

But Hermione put up her hand with an emphatic 
gesture as though to ward off the explanation he 
wanted to give her, and passed by him into the hall. 
She entered the drawing-room. The lamps were 
lighted, a bright fire shone on the hearth. The room 
was empty. She knew that her grandfather had 
gone up to dress for dinner, and that in a few minutes 
he would probably come downstairs. She did not 
want to give him a shock or to distress him. What 
P 


226 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


had to be done would be trouble enough to him, she 
knew ; she wanted to break it to him quietly when 
they were alone. Her only desire now was to get rid 
of Charles before Sir Francis came down. 

Charles had followed her into the room. 

‘ You must — you shall listen to me ! ’ he cried hotly, 
following her across the room to the fireplace. 

‘ I must beg of you to leave me now, Mr Irvine.’ 

* Mr Irvine ! ’ he repeated despairingly. ‘ Has it 
come to that, then ? Are you determined to quarrel 
with me. without even giving me a hearing? Have 
you forgotten all that you owe to me, Hermione, your 
very life ! ’ 

She smiled bitterly and scornfully. ‘ If you had 
saved my life ten times over it could make no differ- 
ence to me now, Mr Irvine. Go back to her who 
claims you as hers. Go and make to her the repara- 
tion which she demands from you 'as a right ! As 
for me and you, it is all over between us — for 
ever.’ 

‘ My God ! you don’t mean to say that you will 
throw me over ! ’ he gasped, turning very pale and 
falling back a little against the corner of a table be- 
hind him. ‘You cannot mean it, Hermione! you 
cannot mean it! You cannot be so unjust as to do 
that on the mere word of a stranger ? You do not 
even know who that woman is — do you ? ’ 

‘ No, I do not. She did not tell me.* 

‘Then I will tell you. And I will tell you, too, 
why I cannot marry her — then you shall judge be- 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


227 


tween us, and see if I have not some right on my 
side too/ 

A not unnatural curiosity stirred her. She did 
want to know who the woman was. She was silent, 
and allowed him to proceed. 

‘ She is my cousin, Laura Irvine.* 

‘Your cousin ! * she repeated, startled. 

‘Yes. Years ago I was, it is true, engaged to be 
married to her. Poor Laura was very fond of me. 
I need not tell you that although I returned her 
affection in a measure, I never really loved her, not 
as I love you, Hermione ; for till I knew you, I never 
knew what real love was. But still, no doubt, had all 
gone smoothly, I should have been quite content to 
marry her ; and I would have done my duty by her. 
But has your grandfather never told you that there 
was a scandal in my uncle’s family, a scandal con- 
cerning his only son?* 

‘ Yes, he told me something once. I felt very sorry 
for the poor boy ! * 

* He was an unprincipled scoundrel I ’ said Charles, 
angered by her words of compassion into speaking 
hotly. ‘ He deserves no pity. Even now that he is 
dead, he should receive none. He forged his own 
father’s name. But for me, he would have stood in 
a felon’s dock, and have spent the rest of his life in 
penal servitude. But, thanks to me, the affair was 
hushed up and kept as a family matter; it leaked 
out, unfortunately, amongst friends and neighbours, 
but it never got into the newspapers. I averted the 


228 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


disgrace of that at least. But I ask you, Hermione, 
how could I possibly marry a forger’s sister ? Can 
you blame me because I broke off my engagement 
with Laura? My own father was an upright man, 
my mother comes of an old and honourable family. 
Could I drag down her name and my own, and 
cement my connection with a felon’s family by 
marrying the sister of my wretched cousin ? ’ 

‘ And yet you have not scrupled to enrich yourself 
with the fortune which should have belonged to your 
unhappy cousin ? ’ 

‘ My cousin is dead, Hermione. The property 
would by law have come to me in any case, and 
my uncle has not unnaturally left me an adequate 
fortune in order to keep the place up. You cannot 
surely blame me for that ? ’ 

Hermione was silent. There was a plausibility 
about his explanation which shook her judgment. 
Seen by the light of this old tale, which in its essen- 
tial points was identical with the story which her 
grandfather had told her, Charles’s conduct to the 
unfortunate Laura certainly lost something of its 
cruelty and brutality.^ Hermione supposed that per- 
haps a very scrupulously honourable man might not 
care to marry a forger’s sister, even though he were 
bound to her by the tenderest bonds. It might not 
be true that he had inveigled Laura into a sham 
marriage. He might have been right in breaking 
off his engagement to her, and the poor girl, mad- 
dened by wounded love and pride, might not un- 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


229 


reasonably have exaggerated his conduct and her 
own claims upon him. Hermione strove hard to 
compel herself to be just, yet she could not silence 
her doubts and misgivings. Why, for instance, had 
Laura Irvine said that he had quite lately promised 
to marry her? Why had she accused him of having 
ruined and destroyed her life? and why, again, in 
his brutal anger, had he knocked her down sooner 
than allow her to speak for herself? There was a 
mystery about it all which she could not quite under- 
stand ; added to which — in spite of the enormity of 
the crime of which the unfortunate young man who 
had forged his father’s name was accused — Hermione 
still felt a secret thrill of compassion and sympathy 
for him. 

Poor young man I Only in his college days ! 
What a wreck had been made of his whole life for 
that one early sin ! Perhaps he had been hard 
pressed before he had yielded to temptation ; per- 
haps he had scarcely realised the extent of his 
iniquity; and assuredly he must afterwards have 
repented most bitterly and deeply of it. No doubt 
it had weighed upon him until it had crushed every 
bit of life and youth out of him. It must have broken 
his heart, and he had died ! Poor fellow ! he had 
perished miserably and obscurely, no doubt, with no 
friendly hand to soothe his dying pillow, no pitiful 
ears to listen to his last words of penitence and grief. 
The picture she conjured up to herself took a most 
powerful hold of her imagination. Little did Charles 


230 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


Irvine, as he watched her with a cruel anxiety, guess 
what were the thoughts that were dominant in her 
mind. She stood leaning against the mantelpiece — 
her head turned a little away from him, her eyes fixed 
upon the fire. 

There was a consuming desire within her to learn 
more about that unhappy youth who had sinned so 
irreparably and died so young. She felt that she 
wanted to know his whole history, and every detail 
of his short, unhappy life. It was a curious desire. 
She could not tell why or wherefore it possessed 
her so strongly. It seemed to her indeed that it 
was no new thing, that she had always wanted to 
know more, that an instinctive craving to throw her- 
self with all her whole soul into that long ago half- 
forgotten story of the past had been dormant within 
her ever since she had come to Deverell Place. 

She lifted her head sharply. Her heart, she knew 
not why nor wherefore, began to beat. It seemed to 
her as though she was upon the crisis of her fate. 
Already her lips had parted to ask of Charles Irvine 
a host of questions that came rushing tumultuously 
into her mind ; already there was a light of eager- 
ness and excitement in her eyes. She was, perhaps, 
all unknown to herself, upon the brink of a great 
discovery, when all at once — and life often plays 
these tricks upon us — a very small matter occurred, 
so that Fate went back upon itself and everything 
was altered. 

It was nothing more than the soft opening of the 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


231 


door behind them, and the entrance into the room of 
a little old gentleman in evening dress. 

‘Hallo, Charles,’ cried Sir Francis; ‘why here you 
are after all ! Capital ! capital ! You have come for 
dinner, I suppose? Delighted to see you, my dear 
boy ; delighted to see you ! ’ 

‘ I am not dressed for dinner, sir.’ 

‘ Never mind ! stay as you are. Delighted to see 
you anyhow, my dear boy. Aren’t we, Minnie? 
Why, monkey,’ turning to his grand-daughter, ‘you 
are not dressed ; how late you are ! Ah ! stopping 
down here for a little chat, I suppose? Run away 
and dress as quickly as you can, my dear, and I will 
put off dinner ten minutes to give you time. Got 
back unexpectedly from town, I suppose, Charles? 
Well, “it’s an ill wind,” they say, and we are the 
gainers ! ’ 

And so Hermione went away to change her dress, 
and Charles Irvine stayed to dinner. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


Charles Irvine sat in his study at Goldsbury 
Towers the following day, writing some letters. He 
looked quite at his ease, and was apparently not ill- 
satisfied with himself, for every now and again he 
laid down his pen and smiled as though his thoughts 
were agreeable. Presently he tossed the last of his 
letters into a basket which stood upon his table for 
the purpose, and touched the electric bell behind him. 

‘ Has the second post come yet ? ’ he inquired of 
the butler. 

‘ The postman is now coming up the avenue, sir.* 

‘ Very well, you can give him these letters when he 
comes.’ 

The butler took them and withdrew. After he was 
gone, Mr Irvine lay back in his chair and gave way 
to reflection. 

‘ What a near shave I have had ! ’ he thought, ‘ but 
all is well, I think, now. Hermione will say no more, 
I think, about breaking off our engagement. Lollie 
has done her worst and has gone away. And if I 
can only manage to hurry on the marriage all may 
yet be well ! If I can only make her mine, then I 
can defy the world ! Anything that may come out 
232 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


233 


after she is my wife can hardly do me any harm. I 
could trust to my wits and to my affection to explain 
away everything. I think I have laid things in train 
now. A telegram from America — important business 
connected with the Lake Valley mine. My presence 
required immediately — impossible to leave Hermione 
or to postpone our wedding. She will be driven to 
marry me at once, and we shall leave the country. 
The plan is an excellent one. Shall I be able to 
carry it out ? There is nothing like boldness in this 
world, and hitherto success has attended most of my 
schemes.’ 

Then he reviewed the events of the previous even- 
ing in his mind. At one time things had looked very 
black for him. Lollie had done her best to ruin him, 
but he had been lucky in having the last word with 
Hermione. The candour with which he had told his 
version of the story had impressed her. She had 
evidently believed him. 

The evening had passed off quietly. Hermione 
had been silent and thoughtful during dinner, but she 
had not been altogether unkind to him. He trusted 
that he had been forgiven. Early this morning he 
had rifled the hothouses at Goldsbury to send to her 
an offering of flowers ; before she was out of her 
room those lovely blossoms must have reached her. 
He hoped she had accepted them as an evidence of 
his love and his humility. 

Presently, when he had lunched, he would order 
his horse and ride over to Deverell ; if she were cold 


234 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


and suspicious still, he would plead, and he would 
explain, and all would yet be well. 

The butler came in with the second post letters. 
The one that lay uppermost was addressed in a queer, 
upright, stiff handwriting, a handwriting that almost 
appeared to him to be feigned. He took it up 
mechanically and opened the envelope carelessly ; 
but the very first words he read caused a flood of 
colour to rush to his pale face, and with an exclama- 
tion of dismay he sprang to his feet, whilst his eyes 
ran quickly over the written sheet that shook in his 
trembling hands. 

‘ Mr Green presents his compliments to Mr Charles 
Irvine, and desires to inform him that he holds in his 
possession a letter given to him by his friend Percival 
Irvine, whose death occurred at Naples some years 
ago, which contains absolute and convincing proof of 
the true history of the forged cheque. Should Mr 
C. Irvine persevere in his determination to marry 
Miss Hermione Deverell, this letter will at once 
be placed by the writer in the hands of Sir Francis 
Deverell.* 

The letter fell to the ground from Charles Irvine’s 
nerveless fingers ; a deadly pallor overspread his 
features ; for a moment or two he gasped for breath. 

Presently recovering himself a little, he stooped 
down and picked it up again, and turned it over and 
over with trembling fingers. There was no address 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


235 


upon it, nor even any date save the postmark, which 
was of yesterday. 

‘ Green ? Green ? ’ he muttered to himself, ' that 
surely was the name of the man who was with Val 
when he died ! I remember it well. Annie told me. 
And, great heavens ! was it not the name, too, of the 
man to whom Hermione was once engaged? Could 
it be the same person ? No, no, not possible ; such 
a thing could only happen by a miracle ; there must 
be dozens of Greens, it is a common enough name. 
And what letter can it be that he has got ? There is 
only one that could condemn me — the letter I wrote 
to Lollie. Can it be possible that she betrayed me 
and gave it to Val ? Surely she was too fond of me 
in those days to play such a trick upon me ! Now^ 
she might do it out of revenge ; but before Val died 
she adored me, believed I was going to marry her. 
No, it is not possible that she could have put such 
a proof against me into his hands. This man Green, 
who is he? Can he not be bought ? If he is poor, it 
would be worth his while to sell the letter ; but what 
has he to do with Hermione? Why is my marriage 
an offence to him ? * 

And then as he stood there, tossed by doubt and 
perplexity, his eyes fell by chance upon a newspaper 
that was upon the table. It was the advertisement 
sheet that lay uppermost, and suddenly he read, and 
as he did so, realised that his question was answered 
for him. 

‘ Third edition of Grey Dawn ready this day at all 


236 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


libraries and bookstalls. Cheap edition of Mr 
Percival Green’s powerful novel, Grey Dawn! 

Percival Green ! 

The words seemed to freeze the blood in his 
veins. Those two names combined ! what did they 
not portend ? What fateful mystery did they not 
suggest ? 

Like a blind man he staggered to the bell, and 
ringing it with violence, ordered his horse to be 
brought round to the door. 

A quarter of an hour later he was galloping 
madly across the park in the direction of Deverell 
Place. 

Sir Francis Deverell was not quite well to-day. 
Sometimes, of late, the old man had been less brisk 
and strong than he used to be ; now and then he lay 
in bed in the mornings and seemed glad to be 
quiet. Hermione did not think very much of it ; 
perhaps from seeing him every day, it did not strike 
her as it would a stranger, that the old man was a 
little changed ; the long winter had told upon him, 
and he did not regain his usual energy with the 
lengthening spring days. So when a message came 
to her that her grandfather would not get up till the 
afternoon, and that she was to lunch without waiting 
for him, she was in no way disturbed or alarmed by 
the circumstance. She went in to her solitary meal, 
carrying with her a book in which she was so 
absorbed that she could not put it down. She laid 
it open by the side of her plate, and went on reading 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


237 


it all the time she was eating, and as a matter of 
fact, the book took up far more of her attention than 
did the food. 

So engrossed in it was she, that she did not hear 
the sharp ring of a horse’s hoofs along the avenue, 
nor was she conscious of the fact that a visitor had 
arrived at the house. 

‘Has Sir Francis gone in to lunch?’ inquired 
Charles, as he alighted, pale and breathless, at the 
front door, 

‘Sir Francis is not down, sir, he is dressing; his 
valet has just taken up his lunch on a tray to his 
dressing-room.’ 

‘ Go up and ask him if he will see me at once 
on a matter of great importance.’ 

After a few moments the servant returned, and 
requested Mr Irvine to follow him upstairs. He was 
ushered into Sir Francis’s dressing-room, where the 
old man, clad in an old-fashioned dressing-gown of 
a flowery pattern, was seated in a deep arm-chair by 
the table, on which a small tray bearing some beef- 
tea had been placed. 

Regardless of the old man’s fragile and pale ap- 
pearance, Charles plunged at once into the object 
of his visit. 

‘ Sir Francis, do you think you can persuade 
Hermione to marry me at once, quietly, within a 
week’s time, without any fuss or any ceremony?’ 

‘ My dear Charles, you startle me ! What is the 
meaning of so extraordinary an idea? ’ 


238 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


‘ Most important things have occurred. I have 
heard this morning from America. You know what 
a large property in the Lake Valley mines my poor 
uncle held, and how great a portion of his income 
was derived from them ? * 

‘ Yes, indeed, and I never approved of his having 
bought such an estate ; there is an element of chance 
about those mines that never approved itself to my 
sober judgment. I trust nothing is wrong with 
them ? ’ 

‘ I am sorry to say that I have bad news ; the whole 
district is in a state of turmoil and anarchy, the works 
are stopped, the men have struck. Nothing but the 
promptest measures can save the most severe losses 
to myself and to the other proprietors. I have been 
telegraphed for by my agent at the Lake Valley, and 
I must start in a week’s time.’ 

‘ My dear boy, go at once, and come back and 
marry Hermione after you have settled your business 
We can easily postpone the wedding ; but I don’t see 
really how you can marry her before you start.’ 

' I must ! I must ! ’ cried Charles, wildly, beginning 
to pace up and down the room in a state of the 
greatest agitation. 

Sir Francis passed his hand wearily across his 
brow ; he was quite unfit for a scene of this 
kind. 

* You must explain yourself, Charles,’ he said with 
an effort. ‘ Where is the necessity for this unseemly 
haste ? ’ 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


239 


*Sir Francis, if I leave'Hermione behind me, there 
is another man who will rob me of her in my absence,’ 
said Charles, earnestly. 

‘Another man! You must be dreaming. Why, 
who can you mean ? ’ 

‘ Her former lover. He is writing threatening 
letters to me.’ 

‘ Good God ! you don’t say so ? Are you certain 
of it ? ’ 

‘ Did you not tell me that his name was Green ? ’ 

‘Yes, certainly it was.’ 

‘ Can you tell me the fellow’s Christian name ? ’ 

Sir Francis pondered for a moment. 

‘Yes, I think it was Percival — Percival Green.’ 

‘ Percival ! Percival ! ’ repeated Charles, dully. 

Sir Francis looked up quickly. ‘ Ah, to be sure, it 
is the same Christian name 1 What an odd coinci- 
dence I * 


CHAPTER XXIV 


It was to Charles Irvine rather more than an odd 
coincidence ; it was life or death. 

The horrible idea had entered his brain, and was 
now driving him to madness, that Percival Green and 
Percival Irvine were one and the same individual ; 
that the latter was not dead, but alive ; that he had 
but allowed it to be believed that he had died long 
ago at Naples; and that, possessed of a letter which 
could bring home his cousin’s sin to him, he lived 
still to avenge himself upon the author of his own 
and his sister’s ruin. 

The only thing in this strange and horrible theory 
was the how and the why of his connection with 
Hermione. Was Hermione, too, in the secret of that 
long-past history ? 

He went downstairs to find her, in a condition of 
confusion of mind not easy to describe. 

Sir Francis had bidden him plead his own cause 
with his grand-daughter. 

‘ If Hermione chooses to walk into church with 
you within the week, and marry you out of hand in 
that way, of course I will not prevent her doing so, 
though I would rather my little girl waited and was 
240 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


241 


married properly on your return home ; but still, as I 
say, if you are so jealous of her old lover, and so un- 
happy at the idea of being parted from her for several 
months, and if you can persuade her to do as you 
wish, well, I won’t say anything against it. Only 
you must talk her over yourself ; go to her now if you 
like, my dear boy, I am not very well to-day, and I 
can’t stand much more.’ 

Charles went downstairs, Hermione was still in the 
dining-room. She had finished her frugal meal and 
had pushed away her plate, but she still sat at the 
table with both elbows upon it, and her bright hair 
was ruffled up under the palms of both hands, upon 
which she leant her head. 

She was completely riveted to her book. Ever 
since she had seen it first advertised, she had been 
writing to London for Grey Dawn. But Mudie’s box 
had arrived week after week without it. There was 
a run upon the book of the season, and a difficulty 
in sending copies of it to the hundreds of subscribers 
who were clamouring for it. 

And in this particular case, Hermione had not 
cared to address herself to Charles, who had so often 
sent for books for her from town. She preferred to 
wait until it came to her in the usual course of events. 

Last night only, when the box arrived from the 
station, Hermione had discovered, to her great and 
unspeakable joy, that Grey Dawn was in it. Half 
the night she had sat up reading it, she could not 
put it down. There was no ‘ skipping ’ possible to 
Q 


243 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


her, she read and pondered over every word of it. 
Every line breathed to her of her lost lover, every 
sentence seemed to be an insight into his heart, a 
revelation of his innermost soul. As she read, she 
pictured his face, his look, his very thoughts, to 
herself. She lost herself, as it were, in his identity, 
and filled herself with the picture and imageries of 
his brain. She had even forgotten Charles Irvine 
and his shortcomings. She had almost forgotten 
that she had not definitely and actually told him 
that she was going to break off her engagement 
with him ! 

He came into the room and stood behind her chair 
before she knew that he was there. The sight of his 
hand, a white, thin-fingered hand that many people 
admired, laid across the open page she was reading, 
was the first revelation of his presence. 

She started and looked up quickly. 

‘What are you studying so deeply, Hermione?* 
he inquired, trying to speak lightly, in order to hide 
the emotion that swayed him. ‘ Show me your book.* 
She tried to hold it, but he took it up and turned to 
the title page. 

‘ Grey Dawn^ by Percival Green.* 

He dropped the book again as quickly as he had 
taken it up. 

‘ Who is this Percival Green ? * he asked, a little 
breathlessly. ‘ Why are you reading his book ? ’ 

She rose to her feet and faced him. Something in 
the autocratic tone of his question angered her. She 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


243 


took the book back and held it firmly in both her 
hands. 

‘Percival Green is the name of the man I love,’ 
she said emphatically ; ‘ and I am reading his book 
because every word that he has written is dear to 
me.’ 

He winced as though she had struck him. 

‘ Ah ! ’ he cried bitterly, ‘ you are indeed cruel to 
me, Hermione ! * 

‘ How dare you question me then about Percival 
Green ? ’ she retorted angrily. 

‘ Have I no right ? ’ he asked reproachfully. ‘ Is it 
nothing to your future husband ? ’ 

‘You are not my future husband ; did I not tell 
you so last night ? ’ she answered hotly. 

‘ Dear Hermione,’ he pleaded gently, ‘ do not say 
that again, I entreat you ; do not be so unkind to me. 
If this man, this Mr Green, were here, and ready to 
marry you, it would be different, but Sir Francis told 
me that it was all broken off.’ 

Her eyes filled with sudden tears ; she nodded her 
head slowly. 

‘Yes, it was broken off,’ she said sadly. ‘I was 
wrong, Charles, but — ’ 

‘ But, my dear,’ he said gently, taking her hand in 
his, ‘ be frank and candid with me. I do not want to 
overlook the fact that you loved, perhaps still love 
this man best, but be fair and generous to me, I 
implore you.’ 

‘ I will be fair to you, Charles,’ she answered, ‘ and 


244 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


at least honest. Our marriage cannot take place. I 
have this morning sent a formal intimation to all the 
invited guests that the wedding is put off.' 

For a moment he was staggered, then suddenly he 
perceived that this precipitate action of hers only 
played into his hands. 

‘ You have done the very best thing in the world,’ 
he said calmly. 

She looked at him in amazement. 

‘You — you say this? You wish it broken off?’ 
And so full of contradiction is the heart of woman, 
that she was conscious of a slight indignation against 
him because he acquiesced so readily in her decision. 

‘ I do wish the wedding party to be put off,’ he 
replied, ‘and I will tell you why.’ And then he 
proceeded to tell her the tale he had told her grand- 
father, about the mines he owned in South America, 
and the necessity which had arisen for him to go 
there at once. 

He implored her to marry him immediately. But 
Hermione only laughed him to scorn. 

‘ You must take me for a fool ! ’ she said impatiently. 

‘ After the revelation of yesterday, after the story told 
me by your unfortunate cousin, how can I possibly 
believe in you and trust you ? far less, how can I 
marry you?’ 

‘ But I explained everything to you.’ 

‘ Yes, but those explanations remain to be proved. 
I do not wish to be hard upon you, but if ever you 
are to be my husband, you must clear yourself 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


245 


thoroughly from the imputations which your cousin 
has cast at you. I will marry no man whose honour 
and whose character are shadowed by so black a 
suspicion.* 

‘ And yet you would have married a man of whom 
you knew less than nothing ! ’ he cried angrily, tapping 
the volume she held with his forefinger. 

* I beg your pardon, I knew Percival Green for 
years, intimately,* 

‘ For years ? ’ 

‘ For seven years,* she answered ; ‘ is not that long 
enough ? ’ 

‘ Hermione, be open with me. Who is Percival 
Green ? * 

‘ He is a man against whom I will not listen to a 
word,’ she answered warmly, ‘ my best and my dearest 
friend. My mother loved him like a son — why, he 
lived with us.’ 

‘ Lived with you ? What was he, then ? ’ 

‘ He was an actor, he acted in the company to 
which my mother belonged. After her death he left 
the stage and took to literature ; you see with what 
result, since he has become famous.’ 

‘ He was always poor, then, always worked for his 
bread ? ’ 

‘ Always.’ 

Charles was silent for a moment, he could not quite 
dovetail the one story into the other. After all, had 
he been frightening himself over a shadow? was he 
perhaps mistaken ? 


246 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


‘Was your friend ever at Naples? * he asked. 

‘Not that I know of/ she replied. 

‘Had he, had he ever a friend, a great friend of 
the same name as mine?* 

‘ Irvine ? I never heard him say so.* 

‘ A friend whose Christian name was Percival, 
too?* 

Hermione shook her head. ‘ I cannot say. 1 
never heard him say so. And it seems unlikely, does 
it not? Percival is not a common name.’ 

‘They called him Val.’ 

For a moment she was silent. Then to her, too, 
came that stupendous revelation of an extraordinary 
possibility. Her heart began to beat; a return of 
the curious presentiment she had experienced the 
previous evening came upon her again. 

‘Val Irvine — the cousin who forged the cheque, 
you mean — and who died ? ’ — and her voice faltered 
and failed. 

For a moment they stood looking into one another’s 
eyes, and to both the conviction of the truth came 
suddenly home. 

‘ Did he die ? * said Charles. ‘ Are you sure that 
the blackguard who has dared to make love to you — ’ 

‘ Stop ! * she cried, ‘ do not say evil things of the 
man I love, who is the best and the truest man that 
ever lived ! * 

‘ Ah ! ’ he replied slowly and mockingly, ‘ then 
Percival Green, who is “ good and true,” as you say, 
cannot certainly be the same as Percival Irvine, the 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


247 


forger, the cheat, the swindler, who died six years 
ago of malaria at Naples.* 

There was a cunning gleam in Charles Irvine’s eyes, 
a subtle meaning in his soft, veiled voice. Hermione 
began to tremble. 

‘ I cannot certainly see any connection between the 
two,* she began hurriedly ; then all at once it came 
back with a sudden shock to her memory, how 
Percival had told her once that * Green* was not his 
real name, but how he could never tell to her what 
it was, because of some mystery which he could not 
explain or make clear to her. And as the awful 
thought overpowered her, she staggered and almost 
fell, a horrible faintness overcame her, she turned 
white as death, and gasped for breath. 

Out of the mist which seemed to envelop her, 
she saw Charles Irvine’s face, cruel and relentless, 
smiling at her, and heard his cool and cutting words. 

* It would be a pity, would it not, Hermione, if 
Percival Green the novelist turned out to be nobody 
else but Percival Irvine the forger? Because in that 
case I should have him arrested, and he would 
probably end his days in Portland Jail!’ 

‘ Ah, have pity I ’ she gasped brokenly ; * how can 
I save him ? How can I save him ? ’ 

‘You can save him very easily, my dear; you can 
marry me within a week, and start for South America 
with me. If you do this, I will forget to identify the 
two men into one I Will you do this, Hermione, for 
Mr Percival Green's sake ? ’ 


248 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


A moment of silence, her face became drawn into 
lines of anguish, her stiff white lips seemed unable to 
frame a word. Then like a hollow whisper from the 
grave, in a sigh that was more like a dying breath 
than a living word — one murmured syllable escaped 
at last from her parched and rigid throat. With a 
bowed head, Hermione whispered, ‘Yes.* 


CHAPTER XXV 


The County of Southshire was electrified; nothing 
so disappointing and so provoking had occurred for 
years. A wedding — the wedding of the day, in fact — 
had no sooner been announced than it -was put off. 
Everybody had been looking forward to the festivities 
at Deverell Place, to the show of presents and the 
trousseau, to the ceremony itself, and to the bali 
which was to wind up the proceedings after the 
departure of the bride and bridegroom ; and now, for 
no rhyme or reason, the invitations were cancelled. 
Everything was put off, and apparently there was to 
be no wedding at all ! The gossips exhausted them- 
selves in conjecture, whilst the ladies bewailed them- 
selves over the new toilettes about which, for a few 
brief moments, they had dreamt. Presently the 
news leaked out — as such news always mysteriously 
manages to do — in the newspapers, and short para- 
graphs appeared in several of the social columns, to 
the effect that the marriage arranged beween Charles 
Irvine, Esq., of Goldsbury Towers, and Miss Hermione 
Deverell would not take place. This paragraph was 
read with the deepest interest and an equal amount of 
satisfaction by two persons, both in London, neither 

of whom had been invited to the wedding festivities. 

249 


250 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


Percival Green, for one, breathed anew when he 
read it in the pages of a Society journal. His threat, 
then, had answered the purpose, and Charles Irvine 
had evidently been frightened into breaking off his 
engagement. 

Laura, too, rejoiced — but from a different cause. 
Laura was once more in the lodgings near Portman 
Square, where her sister Annie had joined her. 

The rapid journey she had taken alone and un- 
cared for, whilst still in the early stages of con- 
valescence, and the subsequent fatigue and agitation 
she had undergone, had left most serious traces upon 
poor Lollie’s health. 

When, in reply to a telegram, Annie had hastened 
to rejoin her sister in London, she was deeply 
shocked at the alteration in her. Lollie seemed 
to have utterly broken down. No amount of ques- 
tioning, however, could extract from her the reason 
of her sudden departure from Amiens, nor the 
business which had occupied her during the two 
days she had been alone in England. All she would 
say in answer to her sister’s inquiries, was that she 
had had something important to do, and that, thank 
God ! she had accomplished it. 

‘ Whatever it is, it has made you look very ill, my 
poor Lollie,’ said her sister, looking pitifully and 
anxiously at the poor, pale face and the almost 
transparent hands that lay helplessly before her. 

* It has at anyrate made me much happier,’ 
answered Lollie, with a faint smile. 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


251 


Every morning she ransacked the newspapers, and 
read every item of social and personal news she could 
find in them. One morning, Annie heard her utter 
an exclamation of delight and satisfaction. 

Annie was bringing her breakfast tray to her bed- 
side — for Lollie lay in bed longer and longer now 
every day — when she was struck by the sudden flush 
of colour in her sister’s pale face, and by the cry of 
joy she gave. 

‘ What is it, Lollie ? * 

* Charles’s engagement to Miss Deverell is broken 
off. I knew it would be.’ 

‘Well, that is surely bad news for poor Charles; 
you ought to be very sorry for him.’ 

‘ Sorry, when it is my doing,’ she answered with 
exultation. 

‘Your doing?’ repeated Annie, in great amaze- 
ment. ‘How can you have done it, Lollie?’ But 
Lillie would not answer. 

Only, after her breakfast, she insisted in getting up, 
and for a long time sat at her writing-table composing 
two letters which seemed to give her a great deal of 
trouble to write, for she tore up a great many sheets 
of paper before she was satisfied with her compo- 
sitions. 

‘Shall I post your letters, Lollie?’ asked Annie, 
who was devoured by a not unnatural curiosity to see 
who her sister could possibly be writing to. But 
Lollie hid her letters jealously in her hand, and said 
she preferred to go out and post them herself. 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


252 

She did so ; but the little effort of going out, even 
to the nearest pillar-box, was too much for her, and 
she was completely prostrated during the remainder 
of the day. 

For two days the poor woman watched for the 
posts, and listened for the door bell, with a feverish 
eagerness that was piteous to behold. 

Her mind, weakened by disease, and possessed by 
only one idea, had fastened itself without sense or 
reason upon the conviction that, with the collapse of 
his marriage arrangements, Charles Irvine would as 
a necessary result come back to his allegiance and 
love to herself. 

‘ It was only that girl who came between us,* she 
said over and over again to herself. ‘Now the en- 
gagement is broken off, he will turn to me once more, 
he will remember all my patient love and devotion, 
and he will appreciate it now that he has lost the 
other.’ 

Alas, poor, deluded Lollie ! 

He never came. In vain she watched and waited ; 
in vain she said to herself in the morning, ‘ He will 
be here to-day;’ only to say when evening came, 
‘ Perhaps he could not come to-day, he will certainly 
come to-morrow.’ Charles neither came nor wrote, 
and Lollie fell into a state of physical weakness that 
only did not open Annie’s eyes to her alarming con- 
dition, because the change in her was so gradual 
that she failed to understand the full import of it. 

Meanwhile, the two letters that she had written 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


253 


had duly reached their destinations, and had produced 
a widely different effect upon the two persons to 
whom they had been addressed. 

The first, of course, had been written to Charles. 
It v/as a long letter, full of protestations of undying 
love and of entreaties to him to return to her. His 
heart, she knew, must be really in the right place. 
She was prepared to forgive him all, if he would come 
to her and do her justice. So much in the past had 
bound them together, so much in the present held 
them still, that Lollie was convinced that her Charles 
would now fall back upon the love that had never 
swerved, and the loyalty with which she was prepared 
to stand by him to the end. 

Charles scarcely took the trouble to read it all 
through in the excitement of his new scheme, and 
the almost breathless haste with which he was about 
to carry it out ; he found no time even to acknowledge 
the letter by a single line — a serious error in judgment 
had he only looked at it in that light, but villainy 
sometimes does succeed in over-reaching itself. 

All that he did with the poor woman’s letter was 
to utter a contemptuous ‘ Pshaw ’ over the lines of 
love and devotion, and then twisting it up into a 
spill, he first lit his pipe with it, and then tossed it 
upon the fire, where in a few seconds there was 
nothing left of it but a little heap of blackened ashes. 
After which, he put it out of his mind and forgot it 
entirely. 

Very different were the feelings with which 


254 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


Hermione Deverell opened and read the letter in 
the unknown feminine handwriting, which reached 
her by the same post. 

‘Dear Miss Deverell’ — ran the trembling lines 
— ‘ I have seen in the papers that your marriage is 
broken off, and I write to bless and to thank you. 
You have done a good and noble thing, and God will 
reward you. To have saved one fellow-creature, how- 
ever poor and wretched, from ruin and despair, is not 
to have lived in vain, and to the end of your life you 
will be glad to think that you have done this. Some 
day, ere long, I daresay you will hear that I am 
happy, after all the sorrow I have gone through, and 
that happiness, when it comes to me, will be owing to 
you. To my last hour I shall never cease to pray for 
your welfare, nor to look upon you as the best and 
noblest of women. — Your eternally grateful 

‘ Laura Irvine.^ 

Now, upon a person of Hermione’s sensitive mind 
and conscience this letter not unnaturally produced 
a most disturbing effect. She had not kept her 
promise to Laura Irvine. She had not broken off 
her marriage — on the contrary, she was about to 
marry Charles with a haste and secrecy which shocked 
herself and filled her mind with horror. In this letter 
she was blessed and thanked for that which she had 
not done, and had no intention of doing ! 

She felt herself to be the basest of hypocrites I 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


255 


What would Laura say of her when she came to 
hear, as in time she must, that the postponement of 
the wedding party meant no postponement of the 
marriage, and that she had actually married Charles 
and broken her solemn promise to Laura within a 
week of her having given it ? And yet there was one 
who was dearer to her than anyone else on earth, for 
whose sake she was about to sacrifice herself! 

For hours after receiving Laura’s letter, Hermione 
was tortured by remorse and misery. She was torn 
in two by conflicting emotions, she knew not what to 
do, nor how to exist I Sometimes she thought she 
must throw herself upon her grandfather’s affection 
and confess all to him, and implore his aid ; and then 
again she remembered the fearful secret concerning 
Percival which had somehow come to her knowledge, 
and which she felt that she must guard with the last 
breath in her body. It was to save him, to screen the 
name he had adopted, to avoid a certain disclosure, 
that she had consented to marry Charles Irvine. Of 
what use would that sacrifice be, if she were to take 
her grandfather into her confidence ? 

No, she must bear her burden alone to the end, 
and even Percival himself must never guess what she 
had done for his sake. 

Yet that letter from Laura weighed upon her soul 
like lead. Once or twice she made abortive attempts 
to answer it, but always she tore up what she had 
written in despair, and felt that it was impossible for 
her to reply to it. 


256 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


All at once, whilst she was thus torn in two by 
indecision and despair, a sudden thought came to her 
which oddly enough had never struck her before. 

If this story were true, if Percival Green were none 
other than Percival Irvine, the outcast, who was sup- 
posed to have died years ago, then Laura was his 
sister. Sister to the man she loved best on earth. 
The thought made her heart beat tumultuously, for 
surely to that one person — his own sister — she could 
speak the whole truth. If Laura knew that it was to 
save her unfortunate brother from the result of the 
crime of his youth, surely she would no longer blame 
her for what she was about to do. And there grew 
up in her mind a great longing and desire to see 
Laura Irvine, and to speak to her once more, no 
longer in parables and in the darkness, but face to 
face, and openly in the broad light of day. 


CHAPTER XXVI 


Sir Francis had not been altogether pleased when 
Charles had announced to him that his grand- 
daughter had consented to marry him in so hurried a 
fashion ; more especially when he further explained 
to him that secrecy was a necessary condition of the 
marriage. 

‘ I cannot see it, I really cannot see it ! ’ the old 
man had answered irritably ; ‘ if the marriage is to be 
quiet, I can understand it, but secrecy upon such a 
matter seems to me to be wholly unnecessary and 
very unpleasant* 

‘ It would not be agreeable to Hermione if it were 
talked about ; our motives are best known only to 
ourselves,’ Charles had urged. ‘ My affairs will come 
right again, but just at present I do not wish it to be 
known that I am in difficulties and am forced to go 
to America immediately.* 

‘You ought to think about Hermione ; people may 
say very unkind things about her.’ 

‘ I don’t think Hermione cares much what people 
say of her, Sir Francis, so long as you and I are 
satisfied with her conduct,* replied Charles. 

After he was gone, the old man endeavoured to 
ascertain Hermione’s unbiassed views upon the 
R 


258 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


matter. But she was very reticent ; all she would 
tell him was that, having consented to do as Charles 
had asked her, she preferred to be guided entirely by 
his wishes. 

‘ He has his own reasons for it,’ she said. 

Sir Francis was very unhappy. This marriage that 
he had so much desired did not seem to be going to 
turn out as he had wished ; Hermione was to be torn 
away from him with a haste that seemed to him to 
be indecorous, and was to be taken straight off to the 
other side of the world for several months. It was 
not at all what he had wanted. Yet, Charles was 
his own pet candidate, and he had so often pleaded 
his cause with her, that the ground seemed cut away 
beneath his feet, and he could say very little against 
him. 

It had been arranged that Charles and Hermione 
should be married at a very early hour on the 
Wednesday morning, in the little village church out- 
side the park gates. Sir Francis and his grand- 
daughter were to proceed there alone, and on foot, 
and Charles was to meet them at the door of the 
church. 

Hermione’s boxes meanwhile were to be conveyed 
to the station, and she was to go away immediately 
after the ceremony, in her husband s brougham, from 
the church door, to catch the early London train. 
There was to be no breakfast, no festivity of any 
kind, and at so early an hour, if due secrecy were 
observed beforehand, it seemed unlikely that the 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


259 


simple marriage would attract any attention even 
amongst the village population. 

Two days after, when the bride and bridegroom 
were safely out of England, Sir Francis had under- 
taken to see that the announcement of the marriage 
should appear in the papers, but by that time Charles 
expected to be with his new wife on the high seas on 
board the Slavonia, in which vessel he had taken 
their passage to South America. 

With difficulty Sir Francis had been brought to 
give his consent to these arrangements. He did not 
like them at all, for he felt they were not satisfactory, 
and he was sure when the truth came out that his son 
would blame him severely ; and for once Richard 
would certainly have right on his side. 

Sir Francis could not endure to fall under the just 
condemnation of his censorious son, and he would 
have given anything to have been allowed at least to 
invite him to be present at the wedding. But Charles 
remained firmly opposed to this, and so in the end 
Sir Francis gave his consent to the arrangements 
proposed, and having consented, he was unable to go 
back from his word. 

As to Hermione, during these terrible days, she 
lived in a sort of trance ; she hardly realised, in fact, 
what she was doing, nor felt that amount of pain and 
horror which might have been supposed. She seemed 
numbed and senseless to all feeling. Like a criminal 
who lies under sentence of death, her sensibilities were 
blunted and she was incapable either of thought or of 


26 o 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


suffering. Laura’s letter was the first thing that 
aroused her from this condition of lethargy, but, as 
has been seen, it was many hours before the chaos in 
her mind which it produced took any definite shape 
or form. 

Charles, whose excitement and agitation amounted 
almost to fever, came very often to the house, but 
she scarcely spoke to him. In the past, although she 
had never loved him, she had respected him and 
believed well of him, and she had always striven to 
be kind and pleasant to him, but now the scales had 
fallen from her eyes and she saw him as he was. He 
was false and cruel, a betrayer of women who had 
trusted him, and a vindictive foe who would not 
allow an old offence to sleep nor an old offender to 
live at peace. 

Hermione no longer took the trouble even to be 
civil to him. She hated him now with a deep and 
deadly hatred, and she took little pains to conceal it. 
By playing upon her most sacred affections he was 
forcing her into a marriage which was loathsome to 
her, and she made no pretence of even liking him. 

If she could have seen her way to escape from this 
hateful marriage she would have done so, but the 
cruel and relentless nature of the man she had to 
deal with taught her that she could save Percival 
Green from his merciless persecution in no other 
way. 

Only, she determined that, once married to him, 
she would be a wife in name only. She would go 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


261 


with him to America, but once on the other side of 
the world she intended to leave him for ever. She 
would not break her grandfather’s heart by separat- 
ing herself from her husband in England ; but out 
there nobody would know what had become of her ; 
perhaps they would believe her to be dead ; it would 
be better so. 

Charles ground his teeth over her silence and cold- 
ness. Sometimes he reproached her bitterly, some- 
times he implored her to be kind, often he poured 
forth incoherent words of love and adoration, but she 
was insensible to everything. Once he said to her 
despairingly, ‘ I suppose now you hate me ! ’ and she 
had answered coldly and contemptuously, ‘ It would 
not be very wonderful, would it, if I did ? ’ 

On the Monday morning, when he arrived at 
Deverell Place to pay his daily visit to her, he was 
told at the door that Miss Deverell was not at home, 
that she had gone up to London by the nine o’clock 
train for the day. 

The intelligence filled him with disquietude. He 
was playing now so dangerous and difficult a game 
that the slightest thing sufficed to turn him hot and 
cold with apprehension. He sought Sir Francis in 
his study. 

‘ Hermione gone to town ! ’ he exclaimed with 
agitation as he entered, scarcely going through the 
form of a morning greeting with the old man. 
‘ What is the meaning of it ? Why has she gone ? 
What is she going to do in London ? ’ 


262 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


‘My dear Charles, don’t excite yourself! Oh, 
these lovers and their impatience, they will be the 
death of me 1 How should I know what Hermione 
has gone to town for ? Ladies have a thousand and 
one reasons for going to London without consulting 
us poor, stupid men.’ 

‘ But last night she had no such intention ; she 
said nothing about it, did she ? ’ 

‘ Nothing whatever. But then, who knows what 
letters from, her milliner or her dressmaker may have 
arrived by the morning post ? My dear fellow, pray 
calm yourself ; Hermione has probably gone to buy 
a bonnet. I am told that kind of purchase requires 
personal attention.’ 

‘ Did she tell you so ? ’ 

‘ Not in so many words. She may have implied 
it.’ 

‘ Then she will have gone to Lady Catherine’s. I 
shall find her in Berkeley Square.’ 

‘You will find her?’ repeated the old man, 
curiously, uplifting his eyebrows. ‘ You don’t mean 
to tell me, my dear fellow, that you are prepared to 
rush up to town after her ? Can you not make your- 
self happy for a few hours without her ? She will be 
back to dinner ; take my advice and don’t make a 
fool of yourself ; ladies like to enjoy their shopping 
alone sometimes.’ 

‘ I cannot say what I shall do,’ answered Charles, 
distractedly, and then he sighed so deeply and so 
miserably that Sir Francis was puzzled. 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


263 


‘ When I was a lover,’ thought the old man, .‘ I was 
certainly infatuated enough, but I did not look so 
wretched and sigh so deeply as that within three 
days of my wedding morning.’ 

Charles went his way back to Goldsbury gloomily 
and miserably. 

‘If I only knew what she was doing at this 
moment,’ he thought, ‘ I should be happy.’ If he 
had known he would not have been happy at all, 
very far from it. , 

For, at this very moment, Hermione was not at 
her milliner’s, nor had any idea connected with 
bonnets come into her mind ; she was walking 
quickly up a small, quiet street in the neighbourhood 
of Portman Square, and making straight for the 
number of a house whose address was upon a letter 
she held in her hand. 

Inside that house Laura Irvine lay upon her sofa 
in the small and dingy sitting-room. Annie was out, 
and Lollie lay, as usual, doing nothing. A pretty 
tea-gown of a flowery pattern, smartly trimmed with 
pink ribbons, only served to accentuate her pale and 
wasted appearance. All traces of poor Lollie’s once 
great beauty had faded ; she was nothing now but a 
shadow, a skeleton, a shrunken and a dying woman 
indeed, had she but known it. Yet still she longed 
and hoped and looked forward, believing that the 
lover of her youth would come back to her, and 
restore her to health and to happiness by making her 
his wife. It was a pitiful delusion. 


264 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


She was listening for the bell — she was always 
listening now. It was her sole occupation. 

‘ He will certainly come to-day/ she thought. 
Then all at once the bell, the visitors’ bell, rang 
loudly. 

Her heart gave a wild throb, she sat up on her 
couch, she heard the servant go to the door, then a 
delay, then the maid’s voice made answer, — 

‘ Miss Irvine is out, but Miss Laura Irvine is at 
home. Will you walk this way, please ? ’ Then the 
door of the room was thrown open, and there entered 
— not Charles — but Hermione Deverell, 


V 


CHAPTER XXVII 


Annie Irvine was walking slowly homewards to- 
wards Portman Square. She had been out all the 
morning on one of her numerous missions of charity, 
to some of the small, crowded alleys north of Oxford 
Street, and she carried in her hand an empty basket, 
in which she had taken some beef-tea to a sick child. 
For no sooner had this excellent woman returned to 
London, than she had at once gone on her rounds, 
and looked up all the poor people she had been used 
to visit in the autumn, and had taken up again all the 
severed threads of her good works of charity towards 
them. 

Annie was a person of great energy of mind, and 
she could not live without some such occupation. 
Her home duty was not an arduous one. To look 
after her sister was the only thing that was left her 
in the world to do ; and sometimes even that duty 
seemed to evade her and slip away out of her control. 
She almost thought that, but for the anxiety of it, the 
Lollie who was laid upon a bed of real sickness was 
preferable to the Lollie who was able to get up and 
go out on secret expeditions of her own, to post her 
own mysterious correspondence, and to get herself 
generally into mischief. To the end of her days 
Annie was convinced that Lollie would always retain 
265 


266 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


the faculty of getting herself into mischief of some 
kind or other. In the eyes of her elder sister she was 
still the spoilt, wayward girl, always in the thick of a 
crowd of love affairs, always breaking men’s hearts, 
and falling in love herself in a foolish and headstrong 
manner, with men whom it would have been better 
that she had not loved. 

And then Annie began to think about Lollie’s ill- 
ness at Amiens, and about those singular things she 
had talked of during the ravings of her delirium, 
ravings in which she had spoken of their dead 
brother Val as though he were still alive, and of 
their cousin Charles as though he were her 
husband 1 

Tliese utterances had been very disquieting to her. 
In vain had she told herself that Lollie was light- 
headed, and that nobody pays attention to the in- 
coherent things said by fever-stricken persons. There 
had been something rather remarkable in what Lollie 
had harped upon, something that seemed to point to 
a method in the madness that had possessed her. 

Annie had not forgotten that Charles, too, had 
astounded her not very long ago by asking her 
whether poor sinful Val had really and truly died 
years ago — and in Lollie’s wanderings she had made 
frequent allusion to Val, as though he lived, and to 
some secret between the three, and to a letter, which 
over and over again she had said that Val had got, 
and by which she and Val together could ‘ruin’ 
Charles. 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


267 


How could anybody ruin Charles? Charles who 
was so good and wise, so upright in life and character, 
such a pre - eminently respectable man altogether ! 
What could Lollie, who had loved him, possibly 
know about him that could ‘ ruin ’ him ? 

Annie tried once more to set all those wild words 
down to the irresponsible wanderings of a fevered 
brain. 

‘ There could have been nothing in it — nothing 1 ’ 
she told herself, as she walked along. 

She was turning into a small street that was a 
short cut to their own, when she heard her name 
called behind her, and looking round, she saw a 
shabbily-dressed girl of about fourteen running after 
her. 

‘ Oh, please. Miss Irvine.’ Annie stopped. 

‘ Well, what is it ? Do I know you ? ’ 

‘ I am Sarah Higgs’s niece Patty, please. Miss 
Irvine.’ 

‘ Oh, to be sure, I remember you, you were living 
with your aunt last November. You are the girl who 
scalded your arm so badly, are you not ? ’ 

' ‘Yes, miss, and you were so good to me — you 
came to see me every day.’ 

‘ Well, Patty, what can I do for you now ? * 

‘ It’s nothing for me> miss — but I wondered if you’d 
be so good as to come and see a poor young man as 
is lodging on the fourth back in my aunt’s house ? he 
do seem ill, poor fellow ! There is a gentleman who 
has come to see him, and looked after him nearly 


268 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


every day, but he ain’t been there to-day at all, and I 
think someone ought to know about him, for he 
seems to get worse every minute.’ 

Such a petition was never made in vain to Miss 
Irvine. She followed Patty at once back to a miser- 
able court where her aunt kept a low kind of lodging- 
house, and clambered painfully up the narrow, rickety 
staircase, till she reached the door of what Patty 
called her aunt’s ‘ fourth back ’ — one wretched, squalid 
back bedroom on the fourth floor. 

She paused at the door. There were voices inside 
the room. 

‘ Perhaps it’s the doctor,* whispered Patty. ‘ Aunt 
did say as she would send for him — but it’s only the 
parish,’ added the girl, contemptuously, ‘ and they 
generally does more harm than good.’ She put her 
head in at the door, and beckoned to Miss Irvine to 
follow her. 

The room was low and dark — the roof sloped down 
to a small window, across which a ragged towel 
had been hung as a curtain. Upon the bed in the 
far corner, a young man, evidently in the last stages 
of consumption, lay dying. A printer’s devil by trade, 
poor Batten had worked at his trying occupation too 
long, and the constant stooping and late hours had 
hastened the progress of that malady which all the ap- 
pliances of science have yet been unable to stem, and 
for which the world up to this day knows of no cure. 

By the side of the bed a gentleman occupied the 
only chair in the miserable room. He held a cup in his 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 269 

hand, and was feeding the poor dying man tenderly 
with spoonfuls of jelly. 

‘It ain’t the doctor, miss,’ whispered back Patty, 
hopefully, ‘ it’s that there gentleman as I told you of 
— come in, miss.* 

Annie came in. The gentleman by the bedside 
rose from his chair. Annie did not look at him ; in 
the dim light she did not even see his face. He did 
not turn his head or seem to take any notice of her 
either. 

‘ Patty,* he said to the girl in a whisper, ‘ tell your 
mother to send for a clergyman, Mr Batten wishes to 
see one.* 

‘ Should she send for the doctor, too, sir ? * 

The sick man whispered a faint ‘ No ! Doctors can 
do nothing,’ he added. 

Annie stood by the door. The sound of the 
gentleman’s voice thrilled through her. She strained 
her eyes through the dim light to see him — but his 
back was turned to her — he was stooping once more 
over the bed. 

Patty left the room to obey his directions. Annie 
came a step nearer. 

‘ Can I be of any use ? ’ she asked gently, ‘ 1 am 
accustomed to sickness.* 

He turned his head very quickly. 

‘ Thank you very much. My poor friend. Batten, 
has all we can give him. I will not leave him now — 
he knows me, and — * the words died away on his lips 
— ‘ Annie I ^ he said, in a low whisper. 


270 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


‘ Val ! my God ! is it you ? ’ The bare, squalid room 
seemed to go round with her. 'Are you Val? or his 
ghost — or am I dreaming ? ’ 

‘You are not dreaming. I am Val, your brother,’ 
he answered. 

‘ Mr Green ! ’ said the sick man, in a faint voice, ‘ I 
can’t take anything more — it’s no good — I’m done 
for. You’ve been very good to me,- Mr Green ; when 
you are dying I pray you may find as kind a friend 
to be near you as you have been to me.’ Those were 
the poor fellow’s last words. He put forth his hand 
feebly and touched Val’s fingers — then of a sudden 
his head fell back upon his pillow. Percival uttered 
a cry and bent over him, and lifted him up. Annie 
flew to the window, tore down the ragged curtain and 
flung open the pane, to give him air — but it was too 
late. 

‘ He is dead ! ’ said Percival, solemnly, after a few 
moments of silence ; and then he laid the poor, dead 
head gently back upon the bed — and closed the eyes 
with reverent fingers. ‘ He has died in a moment and 
without pain, thank God for that.’ 

Then he took his sister’s hand in his, and led her 
from the room. 

Out of that chamber of death the brother and sister 
went together, into the broad light of day, into the 
busy streets where the world went on, where the 
children quarrelled and played, and the women 
scolded and the men swore; into the crowded 
thoroughfare, where the carriages and the carts and 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


271 


the cabs kept up one continuous uproar, and where 
business and pleasure, side by side, rolled on in the 
full tide of life and of restless activity. It was hard 
to believe that in so short a moment the shifting 
scene could have changed so entirely. 

They must have walked for nearly ten minutes in 
silence before either of them spoke. It was Percival 
who broke the silence. 

‘ My dear old Annie/ he said, turning kindly to her, 
‘after all I am glad, very glad to see you again — 
glad that chance has thrown us together ; tell me 
how you are, my dear sister?* 

‘ Val 1 I can hardly believe it now ! it seems like a 
dream. But you must not stay in Loudon, there is 
danger in your present position — you must leave 
England at once — you are believed to be dead — for 
the sake of us all you must not be seen. If poor 
Lollie were to know ! or if Charles — ’ 

‘Lollie has known it for some time. I saw her last 
November.’ 

‘You saw her? and she kept the secret from me, 
from everyone ? ’ 

‘As for Charles — I think it is time the secret which 
benefits no one on earth but himself should be a 
secret no longer. Tell me, Annie, now that he has 
broken off his marriage with Sir Francis Deverell’s 
grand-daughter, is he going to marry Laura ? ’ 

‘ Oh — no i no ! God forbid ! ’ 

‘ Annie, he must marry her,’ said Percival, gravely — 
‘it is for that alone that I have suffered. Do you 


272 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


suppose I would have gone through all I have done 
from any other cause ? Charles has ruined Lollie’s life 
— he must marry her/ 

‘ How can he ? how can you expect him to marry 
her ? how can he join his unblemished life with one 
of usy Val ? Oh, how is it possible that you can 
speak so unconcernedly ? that you can have for- 
gotten the shame and the disgrace which your sin 
has brought upon us all ? ’ 

‘ My dear Annie, let us at last understand one 
another, let me explain/ 

‘Val, all the explanations in the world cannot 
do away with the fact that you forged our father’s 
name upon a cheque, and filled it in for three 
hundred pounds ! ’ 

‘ My dearest Annie, it was not I who forged that 
cheque, it was our precious Cousin Charles, whose sin 
I have borne for years, so that he might make poor 
Lollie happy, and give her back the reputation he had 
injured. It is for that alone I have suffered, for that 
alone that I have consented to be as one dead/ 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


Hermione had thrown herself upon her knees by 
the side of Laura Irvine’s sofa 

‘ Can you forgive me ? can you ever again think 
kindly of me ? ’ she was saying. ‘ When I got your 
letter I could not rest. I could not allow you to 
think me good when I have broken my word to you 
and been false to my promise. I felt that I must 
come and confe.ss the truth to you, or I should never 
know another moment of peace on earth.’ 

* And you are going to marry him after all, then ? ’ 
she asked dully, almost stupidly. Her arms were 
folded behind her head, her eyes fixed upon vacancy, 
her form stretched rigidly upon the sofa. ‘ It was 
not true, then, that the wedding party had been 
put off?’ 

‘ It is true that the wedding party is not to take 
place, but now I am to be married at once, on 
Wednesday, secretly, and in a hurry ; no one will 
know about it’ 

‘ What are you marrying him for ? Do you love 
him ? ’ 

There was a few moments of intense silence. 
Laura’s eyes were fixed upon Hermione’s face, in 
which a deep colour had slowly risen. Hermione 
s 


274 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


could not meet the older woman’s faded eyes of 
reproach and grief 

‘ I am obliged to marry him/ she murmured at 
length, with a sense of shame that seemed almost 
unbearable. 

‘ Obliged ! Who obliges you ? ’ 

‘ My love for someone else,’ she replied in a low 
voice. 

‘That is a curious reason, Miss Deverell ! Your 
love for someone else obliges you to marry a man 
you do not love, and who is morally bound to 
another woman whose life you are ruining by doing 
so ! ^ 

‘ Oh, Miss Irvine ! I want to explain it to you ! 
You must indeed think me a wicked woman, but you 
do not know all. Do you suppose I want to marry 
Charles ? That I would marry him if 1 could possibly 
avoid it ? ’ 

‘ He is the Squire of Goldsbury ! ’ said Laura, con- 
temptuously. 

‘ Oh, do not misjudge me so cruelly ! It is not that 
— it is because he threatens, if I do not marry him, to 
do a terrible injury to one who is dearer to me than 
life itself — one who is dear to us both. Miss Irvine.’ 

‘ I do not understand. Who do you mean ? ’ 

‘ Is it not true,’ began Hermione, with a beating 
heart, ‘ that you once had a brother ? ’ 

‘ A brother ! ' repeated Lollie ; then she lifted her- 
self up on her sofa cushion and gazed intently into 
the younger woman’s face. 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


275 


* Speak ! speak ! ’ she said excitedly. ‘ Why do 
you speak of my brother ? my brother who is dead ? ’ 

^ Is he dead, Miss Irvine? Are you sure ? ’ 

‘ If he were not, what is he to you ? What do you 
know of him ? What have you heard ? Speak 
plainly.’ 

‘ Miss Irvine, I will. I have heard, like all the rest 
of the world, that old story concerning your brother- 
how he was said to have forged your father’s name 
upon a cheque.* 

‘ Said to have done so ? Did he not forge it ? ’ cried 
Laura, desperately — still bent, poor, infatuated creature, 
upon shielding the name of the man she loved. ‘ Do 
you suppose a man would be disowned by his famdly 
and disinherited by his father, driven into exile, and 
wiped out of his generation for any other cause save 
that of crime ? Of a crime,’ she added wildly,* which, 
if even now it came to light, would bring him under 
the just retribution of the law.’ 

Hermione had risen from her knees ; she took one 
or two paces down the room and back again ; a sudden 
conviction came home to her ; her face was pale with 
the intensity of her emotion, her whole being strung 
up to the uttermost limits of excitement. 

She stopped again before the invalid’s sofa. 

‘ I heard you say the other night, with my own ears, 
that your brother Val possessed a letter which you 
had given him ; therefore he lives, and you know it ! 
You said it was a letter which could ruin Charles 
Irvine ; what was in that letter, if it was not a proof 


276 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


of the innocence of the one and of the guilt of the 
other ? ’ 

Lollie flung back her head and laughed. It was a 
hollow laugh, pointless and mirthless ; it was a laugh 
to gain time. 

‘ That ! ’ she cried. * Oh, what a chapter of misap- 
prehension ! My dear Miss Deverell, that letter 
concerns me alone. It was a love-letter written by 
Charles Irvine in the early days of our engagement, 
and contains such expressions of his affection and 
such reiterated promises of marriage, that it ought to 
force him to own that he is bound to me.* 

‘You said it would ruin him.’ 

‘ Merely as regards his marriage with you ! It had 
nothing whatever to do with my unfortunate brother. 
Unluckily, his guilt was too well confirmed at the 
time.’ 

‘ Who by ? * 

‘ By Charles himself, who detected the forgery/ 

As certainly as they two were alone together in 
that narrow room, as certainly as the hot words that 
fell alternately from one or the other into the stillness 
of an atmosphere that seemed to be charged with 
secret currents of electricity, so certainly did Her- 
mione know that Laura lied to her. Yet to force her 
to speak the truth seemed a hopeless task. Lollie 
would not give up the man she loved to save her 
brother ; she had sacrificed Percival once before, when 
youth was before her and her hopes ran high; she 
was ready to sacrifice him once again, now that her 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


277 


youth was left behind, and all her hopes lay scattered 
and wrecked upon the strand of her wasted life. 

But Hermione was fired by a new thought, and 
she, too, was determined she would not give up the 
fight. 

‘ Your brother Val i^ alive. Miss Irvine,’ she said 
with decision ; ‘ it is useless to deny it, I know that 
he is alive.’ 

Lollie glanced at her quickly and suspiciously, for 
she was taken at a disadvantage. 

‘ Oh, well, I have not denied it, have I ? But what 
difference can it make? I believe the poor fellow 
does exist somewhere abroad. I fancy he lives in 
Italy under an assumed name. He can, of course, 
never show his face in England again. Charles very 
naturally stipulated that he should never return to 
this country.’ 

‘ Miss Irvine, you are misinformed. Your brother 
does indeed live under an assumed name, but not in 
Italy. He is in England, probably in London now, 
and you know the name he passes by as well as 
I do.’ 

‘ I assure you I do not. You seem to know more 
than I do. Is it possible that you have met poor 
Val, Miss Deverell ? ’ 

‘ I have met Percival Green.’ 

For a few moments neither spoke a word, then in 
a low voice Hermione said, — 

‘ If Percival Green and Percival Irvine are one and 
the same person, then I can tell you for certain, Miss 


278 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


Irvine, that he is absolutely incapable of the crime of 
which he has been accused. The sun would cease to 
shine, truth would be turned into falsehood, and day 
into night, heaven itself would cease to be just and 
holy, sooner than that Percival Green could commit 
a crime, or be guilty of a dishonest action.’ 

‘ We are at cross-purposes. Miss Deverell,’ answered 
Laura, with affected coolness. ‘ Who is Percival 
Green ? I have never heard of him. Oh, is he not a 
man who has written a book ? I think I have seen 
it reviewed lately, but really, beyond seeing his 
name in print, I never heard of him. Who is 
he?’ 

‘ He is a man whose name I swear that I will clear 
from the most cruel charge that ever was made 
against an innocent person,’ replied Hermione, with 
hot indignation. 

‘ My dear Miss Deverell, it is very kind of you to 
interest yourself in this man, but what has this to do 
with me, pray ? ’ 

‘ Everything, since he is your brother.’ 

‘ That is an entire romance upon your part, Miss 
Deverell. You seem to be the victim of an unfor- 
tunate love affair, and for that you have my sincerest 
compassion, for as you know, I myself have suffered ; 
but excuse me for saying, that if you are attached to 
this Mr — Mr Green, did you say his name was ? — 
how will it help you to marry my lover Charles on 
Wednesday next ? ’ 

‘ I am not going to marry him,* 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


279 


Laura sprang to her feet with an exclamation of 
amazement. 

‘ And yet you came here on purpose to tell me 
that you were going to do so ! ’ 

‘ But since I have been here I have changed my 
mind. I came into this room, it is true, believing that 
to save your brother’s name it was essential that I 
should submit to Charles’s conditions. Since I have 
been here, I have become certain that there has been 
a conspiracy against him, and that Percival is inno- 
cent, and that to save him it is only necessary that 
someone with a strong hand and a determined will 
should bring the truth to light concerning that old 
story. I am going to be that someone. Miss Irvine.’ 

‘ My dear girl, forgive me for saying that you are 
running away with a delusion. You have comfort- 
ably settled it in your own mind that this Mr Green, 
who is a friend of yours, is the same individual as my 
unhappy brother. Because two men happen to have 
the same Christian name, it does not prove them to be 
the same person ! It is a ridiculous misconception on 
your part. You will have to find proofs of this far- 
fetched theory of yours before you will get any 
sensible person even to listen to it. How on earth 
are you going to prove the identity of two persons, 
neither of whom are to be found ? ’ 

‘ I am convinced that it is not a case of two persons 
but of 07 ie' 

‘ But your convictions, my dear young lady, are not 
founded upon anything at all ! ’ 


28 o 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


‘Do you mean then to deny that your brother 
calls himself Green?’ 

‘Certainly I do. Mr Green was the name of a 
friend with whom he travelled at one time abroad ; 
it is quite possible that he may be the very Mr 
Green you know, and that a certain similarity of 
circumstances and date may have led you to con- 
found the two.’ 

‘ Miss Irvine, if you were to be brought face to face 
with Percival Green you would be forced to own him 
to be your brother. In seven years neither you nor 
your sister, no, nor yet Charles Irvine himself, can 
have forgotten a face which was once so well and so 
familiarly known to you all.’ 

‘ Certainly I should know my own brother, but I 
should not know Mr Percival Green,’ answered Lollie, 
doggedly, ‘ because I have never seen him.’ 

‘ It shall be the business of my life to bring him to 
see you,’ replied Hermione, earnestly. ‘ It is true 
that I do not know where he lives, but I will never 
rest until I find him and bring him myself into your 
presence.’ 

The quick shutting of the outer door and the sound 
of footsteps along the narrow passage, warned them 
that someone had come into the house. The door 
opened, Annie came in hurriedly with a little flutter 
of excitement. Hermione was in the shadow on the 
side of the opening door. Annie did not see her. 
She only saw her sister half crouched upon the sofa. 
She made one rapid step across the room. 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


281 


* Lollie, Lollie ! I have brought him here — ^I have 
met him ! Oh, my dear, how could you keep the 
secret of it so long from me ? But now we have found 
him — we will not let him go, he must not leave us ; 
perhaps it was not true, perhaps he was innocent. 
Anyhow, he belongs to us, and we must stand by him. 
Our poor, lost, suffering Val, his home must be with 
us, dear, must it not?* 

And then Percival Green — Percival Irvine — came 
into the centre of the little sitting-room, and took 
Lollie’s trembling, shrinking form into his arms. 
And at the very moment that he kissed her, be 
turned half round and saw Hermione standing in the 
shadow. 


CHAPTER XXIX 


Lady Catherine Deverell had one of her bad 
headaches. She lay upon the sofa in her darkened 
morning-room with a handkerchief soaked in eau-de- 
Cologne bound round- her forehead, whilst Celestine, 
her maid, now r^xovered from the influenza, stood 
behind her, fanning her slowly with a large Japanese 
fan. * 

On the hearthrug before the fire, Fudgy sat blink- 
ing his eyes at the light, and every now and again 
he licked his apology for a nose, in a contemplative 
manner, with his little red tongue. 

The house stood on the west side, which is the 
quiet side of Berkeley Square, and there was not much 
traffic going by it. A carriage or a cab could be 
heard approaching some way off, and each made by 
its infrequency a distinct and separate disturbance in 
the stillness. 

Thus, a hansom cab which came pretty rapidly up 
the side of the square from the south-east corner could 
be heard approaching some way off. Celestine heard 
it, and fanned her mistress less regularly. Lady 
Catherine heard it, and half lifted her aching head 
from its-cusliions ; and Fudgy, of course, heard it too, 
282 


A DIFFICULT MATTE^R 


283 


and scrambled on to all his four little stumpy legs 
and cocked up his little black ears in a manner ex- 
pressive of the deepest attention and interest. 

For the hansom had stopped at the door, and the 
visitors’ bell clanged through the quiet house. 

‘ I can’t possibly see any callers, I am too ill,’ said 
her ladyship, hurriedly. ‘ Go to the top of the stairs, 
Celestine, and call “Out” before Wade gets to the 
door.’ 

Celestine did so, but was unluckily half a minute 
too late, so that the visitor standing below heard it 
perfectly. 

‘ You hear, sir,’ said Mr Wade, with an upward jerk 
of his thumb. ‘ I told you that her ladyship was ill 
— you see she will not be able to see you.’ 

‘ But I must see her,’ was the answer. There was 
a somewhat lengthy conference, and presently the 
portly Mr Wade was induced to go, panting labori- 
ously upstairs on an embassy to the door of Lady 
Catherine’s boudoir. 

‘ Who is it ? ’ said the lady, crossly, from within. 

‘ It’s Mr Charles Irvine, and he wants to know if he 
can speak to you, my lady.’ 

‘ Bother Mr Charles Irvine ! ’ murmured Lady 
Catherine, languidly — and then Fudgy barked, and 
that put the finishing stroke to Lady Catherine’s 
woes. She put up her hand to her aching head and 
took off the eau-de-Cologne bandage. 

‘ I suppose I must see him then as he insists, but I 
think it very inconsiderate. Celestine, clear away the 


'284 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


bottles and medicine glasses and be off, and Fudgy, for 
heaven’s sake, stop barking ! ’ 

Celestine obeyed, and Fudgy, having sniffed at the 
visitor’s legs as he entered, contented himself with a 
grunt expressive of recognition but not of approba- 
tion, and curled himself up disgustedly on the rug 
again. 

Charles came in hurriedly, throwing a rapid glance 
round the room as he entered, as though he expected 
to see someone else in it besides Lady Catherine. 

‘You must forgive my intrusion. Lady Catherine. 
I hope your head is not very bad,’ he said, as he 
shook hands with her. 

‘Yes, it is very bad. I hope you won’t be long; 
you must excuse me for saying so. Is anything the 
matter? ’ 

‘ Have you seen Hermione ? ’ answered Charles, 
with a counter question. ‘Has she written to you, 
or called, or let you know her movements? You 
must forgive me for asking, but I could not cross- 
question your servant, and as Mr Deverell is not at 
home, I felt I could not leave the house without 
knowing.* 

‘ Surely Hermione is at Deverell, is she not ? ’ 

‘ No, she went up to town for the day, this morning. 
I made sure she must have come here to lunch.’ 

‘No, I have not seen her. But, Mr Irvine, why are 
you looking for her? I understood that your engage- 
ment is at an end ; surely her movements therefore 
can be of no further interest to you.’ 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


285 


‘Indeed, Lady Catherine, you do me an injustice; 
it is true that our marriage is postponed for the 
present, but I can never give up the hope of making 
her my wife, nor cease to take the deepest interest in 
her welfare. I know you are fond of Hermione/ 

‘ I am very fond of her. She is a nice girl.’ 

‘ Then you cannot possibly think it right that she 
should be going about London by herself, a lovely 
girl, alone — unprotected, without even a maid to 
accompany her.’ 

Lady Catherine looked rather curiously at her 
visitor ; she perceived that he was excited and 
nervous ; she guessed that he was possibly actuated 
by different motives than those he mentioned. 

‘ I always found Hermione quite to be trusted,’ she 
answered quietly. ‘ Whilst she was here she walked 
out by herself with my pug every day, if you re- 
member. I think no young woman I ever met is 
more capable of taking care of herself than she is. 
I would not be anxious if I were you, Mr Irvine. 
Besides, surely my father-in-law is the best judge, 
and if he allows Hermione to come up to town alone, 
don’t you think it would be very great impertinence 
on our part if we interfered with his arrangements?’ 

‘ Lady Catherine, you are a lady, and therefore a 
much better judge in such matters than an old gentle- 
man who has had no previous experience in taking 
care of a young lady.’ 

There was a moment or two of silence. Lady 
Catherine was wondering what Charles Irvine really 


286 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


wanted, for this young man had a faculty of inspiring 
candid-minded persons with suspicions of his good 
faith. Charles, on his part, was wondering how and 
in what words he should make known the somewhat 
audacious request he was about to venture upon. 

‘ There is a house. Lady Catherine, to which 
Hermione may have gone to lunch,’ he began at 
last, with some hesitation. ‘ If she has not come here, 
I think she may perhaps have gone there.’ 

‘Ah ! then if you want to find her, I advise you to 
go off there at once,’ said Lady Catherine, promptly, 
with alacrity. If he would only go and allow her to 
rest her poor, aching head again ! 

‘That is just what I cannot do. Dear Lady 
Catherine, I want you to do me a very great kind- 
ness — could you ? would you ? ’ 

‘ What do you want me to do ? ’ 

‘ I want you to go to that house, to inquire if 
Hermione is there, to bring her away with you if 
she is, and to sit there till the time is past for the 
6.30 train if she has not arrived, so as to take her 
with you if she chances to go in there at tea- 
time.’ 

‘ Bless the man ! what in the name of fortune is the 
meaning of all this ? To begin with — whose house ? 
and why am I, who am so ill to-day that I can’t Lear 
the sound of ihy own voice, to hustle off I don’t know 
where, for I don’t know what? For goodness sake 
explain yourself, or I shall think you have gone 
crazy.’ 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 287 

‘The house is the one where my cousins Annie 
and Laura Irvine are lodging.’ 

‘ Good gracious ! then why on earth can’t you go 
there yourself?’ 

‘ Because, Lady Catherine, I fear that I should be 
placed in a false position ; my cousins have chosen to 
quarrel with me. I may say in all modesty that they 
owe everything to me, and to my care for their 
interests ; I have been as a brother to them, manag- 
ing their little fortune, and taking every sort of trouble 
for them, and they have shown a base ingratitude in 
return for my kindness, by poisoning Hermione’s 
mind against me ! It is owing to their cruel slanders 
that she has quarrelled with me. It is my earnest 
desire to make my peace with her; but if she has 
gone to spend the day with those women, heaven 
only knows what mischief they may not work to me.’ 

It was really quite astonishing how glibly and 
easily these elaborate lies rolled off Charles Irvine’s 
tongue ! 

‘ It is very odd,’ said Lady Catherine, thoughtfully. 

‘ I don’t know much about your cousins, but I should 
have thought, from all I have heard of her, that Annie 
Irvine was much too good a woman to promote 
slander against anybody ! ’ 

‘ That only shows how easily one may be deceived,’ 
answered Charles, with a pious melancholy. ‘ I have 
reason to know that there does not exist a more 
malicious - tongued woman on earth than Annie 
Irvine.’ 


288 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


Poor Annie, who was always singing his praises 
as the best amongst men ! If she only could have 
heard him ! 

How he cajoled and persuaded, and coaxed and 
flattered, need not be entered into at length. Charles 
was very clever at talking people over ; he had been 
at it all his life, and he had a way of making people 
see things exactly in the light in which he wished 
them to look at them. Somehow or other he 
managed to make Lady Catherine admit that her 
headache was decidedly better, and that yes, cer- 
tainly, a little fresh air might very likely do her 
good ; also that it would be a great pity if 
Hermione were to have her head filled with un- 
kind things by two spiteful old maids; perhaps 
they were spiteful if Mr Irvine, who knew them 
so well, said so, and old maids they decidedly 
were. 

Lady Catherine found herself driving in the direc- 
tion of Portman Square before she very well realised 
that she had knocked under altogether to her visitor s 
suggestion. 

The carriage was a brougham, and Charles settled 
that he would remain in it whilst Lady Catherine 
went in to see if Hermione had been there or was 
expected. As, however, he did not wish to be seen, 
the brougham drew up at a short distance from the 
house, and Lady Catherine descended from it, and 
walked a little way up the street by herself. 

Charles sat well back in his corner, and waited for 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


289 


her. He was a prey to the most horrible anxiety, 
coupled with an uncontrollable jealousy. He knew 
well enough that Hermione had only consented to 
marry him through her fears for the safety of the 
man she loved, and that she would escape him even 
at the eleventh hour if she only knew how to do so. 
If she and Laura met again, what might not be said 
between the two? What might not be plotted? 
Laura from revenge, and Hermione from sheer 
hatred might indeed work his ruin ! Sometimes 
he thought that if he might only for one single 
day call her his own, then he would not care 
what happened to himself. 

Oh ! to take her away with him, far, far from every 
other living creature ! Away to the other side of the 
world. Surely, surely his love, his devotion, his 
absolute self-abnegation for her sake, must in the 
end win some response, however slight, from the 
heart that was now so cold and so closely barred 
against him. Only two days more ! Two days ! 
What were they going to bring forth? A horrible 
presentiment of evil possessed him. As he sat wait- 
ing in Lady Catherine’s brougham, it seemed to him 
as though something, he knew not what, of direst 
import, hovered in the very air about him. 

It might have been only ten minutes that he sat 
there alone, it might have been forty, afterwards he 
never could remember ; suddenly he looked up, to 
see Lady Catherine with a strange, frightened look on 
her face standing by the carriage door. 

T 


290 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


^ What is it ? ’ he gasped. ' Is she there ? ’ 

■Hermione? Yes — she is there — you must come 
in at once, Mr Irvine, I have very dreadful news 
to tell you.’ 

‘ What — what ? ’ he faltered. 

‘ Laura is dying — she is asking for you. Come 
at once.’ 


CHAPTER XXX 


Everything that Hermione had guessed and sus- 
pected was confirmed into certainty when Percival 
-»-her own Percival Green — was ushered into the room 
by Annie Irvine under the name of ‘ Val.’ He was, 
indeed, the man she loved, the Percival of her former 
days, who had acted in the provincial company with 
her mother, who had followed them about from town 
to town, sometimes even lodging in the same house 
with them, and who had thus been associated with 
the happiest days of her girlhood. He was the 
Percival, too, from whom life and change of fortune 
had parted her, and who had angered and wounded 
her so cruelly of late by refusing the love he had 
once craved from her. 

Now at last the scales fell from her eyes, and she 
understood him I Understood the motives which 
had made him stand aside from Sir Francis 
Deverell’s grand - daughter, and the loyalty and 
unselfishness with which he had bidden her go 
and find happiness with another man, sooner than 
drag her down to the level of a name which had 
been dishonoured and degraded in the eyes of the 
world ! 

And this was the man whom his own sisters be- 
291 


292 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


lieved to be capable of crime, and whom she herself 
had so cruelly misjudged that she had been faithless 
to him. 

For the first few seconds after he came into the 
room, her eyes were filled with such a blinding mist 
of tears that she could scarcely see him through them. 
An overpowering sense of remorse and shame over- 
whelmed her — for how could he ever forgive her? 
Did he know that she had been false to him ? that 
she had been actually engaged to Charles Irvine? 
that even at this very moment she stood pledged 
to become his wife in two days’ time. 

As for Percival, his amazement at finding her in 
his sister’s room absolutely took away his breath. 
He had had no idea that Hermione and Laura 
had ever met, or that they knew each other. 
His bewilderment was complete, and his consterna- 
tion scarcely less so, for in a moment he perceived 
that the secret that he had striven to keep from 
Hermione’s knowledge was a secret from her no 
longer. If ever she had heard — as of course she 
must have done — of that base and unworthy son 
who had robbed his own most loving and affec- 
tionate father — then now she must see for herself 
that Percival Green and that unnatural son were 
one and the same person ! 

Bowed to the earth by the consciousness of this 
disgrace under which he had silently suffered for so 
many years, Val Irvine turned to his elder sister. 

‘Tell Miss Deverell to leave us,’ he said to her in 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


293 


a low voice, not daring to lift his eyes to Hermione’s 
lovely face of grief and surprise. * It is not fit that 
she should be dragged into the miserable history 
of my life and my mistakes — tell her to go, Annie,* 
for he would not speak to her directly. 

But before he could lift his eyes or turn round, 
Hermione had taken a couple of swift steps across 
the room, and had placed herself by his side. 

‘ Forgive me, Percival,’ she cried, lifting a tear- 
stained face to his, ‘ forgive me ! I have cruelly 
misjudged you. I thought you were only fickle 
and changeable — that you had ceased to love me 
— that you were too proud and too indifferent to 
my happiness to try to overcome the difficulties 
that stood between us — but oh ! what a fearful 
mistake I have made ! for now I see why you 
acted as you did ; now I know that what I took 
for faithlessness was the outcome of the noblest 
the truest loyalty that man ever showed to woman. 
Oh ! how can I ever express my grief and my peni- 
tence to you ! * 

And with an impulsive gesture of humblest wor- 
ship, she caught his hand in hers, and raising it to 
her lips covered it with passionate kisses. 

‘ Hermione ! for heaven’s sake don’t, my dear ! 
don’t kiss my hand ! I am not worthy.’ 

‘Not worthy!’ she repeated, clinging still to the 
hand he strove to withdraw from her grasp ; ‘ who is 
not worthy of love and devotion if you are not ? If 
this dear hand—’ 


294 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


‘ Ah ! do you not know that it is the hand of one 
who has been called a forger for years ? * 

‘ And that is the wickedest lie that has ever been 
uttered ! ’ cried Hermione, warmly. ‘ From the 
moment that I began to suspect that you and Val 
Irvine were one and the same person, I have doubted 
that old tale ; and now that I know tha.t jyou are the 
hero of that unhappy story, I know beyond a shadow 
of a doubt, that whoever it was who forged that 
cheque, it most certainly was not Percival Irvine ! ’ 

‘You believe that without any proofs, you think 
me innocent ? ’ he cried, with a sudden rapture of 
delight and joy, that flooded his whole face like a 
gush of sunlight. 

‘ Believe ! think ! ’ she repeated scornfully, ‘ those 
are but poor words ! I do not require proof — I know 
— I know it ! ’ Then drawn by his circling arm, she 
lifted her head proudly, and stood up boldly and 
bravely by his side. ‘ Look here,’ she said, turning 
to Val’s sisters, who had been watching this scene 
with astonishment and perplexity, ‘you are his 
sisters, and you doubted him, but sisters do not know 
a man as the woman who loves him does. For years 
Percival and I loved one another — for years I saw 
him day after day, in poverty and in hardship, often 
almost in want — when we were all very poor to- 
gether, my dear mother and he and I. We used to 
share all we had, and I used to cook for them, and 
mend their clothes, and be their little servant, whilst 
they toiled at their profession and worked up their 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


295 


parts, and went to their endless rehearsals. Ah ! do 
you think one can be in a man’s daily life like that 
for years, and not know what he is really made of? 
And I know Percival ! He is the very soul of 
honour; no one ever knew him tell a lie or do a 
mean or dirty action. And as I knew him then — 
so I know him now — and that old slander shall not 
prevail against him any longer, for he and I together 
will bring the truth to light — Percival,’ turning to 
him with a sudden energy, ‘ where is that letter that 
your sister Laura gave you ? ’ 

Laura uttered a cry, and half rose from the sofa. 

‘You swore you would not use it as long as 
Charles was free to marry me, Val ! You cannot be 
false to your oath ; you cannot, after all these years, 
stand between me and the reparation which Charles 
is still able to make to me.’ 

‘ Lollie, is Charles any nearer to marrying you than 
he was six months ago?’ asked Val, gravely. He 
still kept his arm round Hermione, and she leant 
against his shoulder ; her noble defence of him, her 
tfiust in his integrity, the way in which she had cast 
in her lot with his, touched him deeply and pro- 
foundly. With Hermione on his side, what might 
he not accomplish? Now that she knew all, how 
could he go on sacrificing her, as well as himself, to 
Lollie, for the vain dream which, poor soul, never 
came any nearer to realisation?’ 

‘Charles has broken off his engagement to Miss 
Deverell,’ said Lollie. ‘ He is free — free to be mine — 


296 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


she has let him go — it was a mistake and I shall 
forgive him. Val, you can’t undo the work of years, 
surely you cannot ? Annie ! ’ turning wildly to her 
sister, ‘ don’t let him do it — don’t let him break my 
heart 1 Surely you will stand by me — you don’t 
want a fresh scandal in the family? It would all 
come out in the papers this time, and our dead 
father’s name — and poor Charles, who has lived so 
openly and won such golden opinions — oh, think what 
it would be ! Miss Deverell, even you must think 
about Charles, who has been so much to you ! ’ She 
was incoherent, the words poured forth confusedly 
from her trembling lips, then she staggered forward 
and flung herself on her knees before them, lifting 
up her shaking hands in piteous entreaty. 

* Val, spare me — spare me ! it’s nothing to you — 
you are forgotten — nobody remembers you ! — but to 
him it would be ruin — ruin.’ 

Over and over again she had moved Val’s heart 
by these arguments. Over and over again, sooner 
than witness her despair and her distress, he had 
yielded, and had consented to go on bearing the 
burden which he had taken up at the bidding of a 
beautiful sister whom he had once adored. 

But that was when he had been alone — when he 
had had no one but himself to consider — when 
Hermione knew nothing, and could not suffer pain 
and disgrace through him and by him. 

But now, with this sweet and gracious woman 
clinging to him, avowing her love and her faith and 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


297 


her unshrinking determination to help him back to 
his natural place in the world, Val could no longer 
consent to live in the dark shadow of an unmerited 
condemnation. He had Hermione to think of 
now. 

Meanwhile Annie, who had rushed to Laura’s side 
and was trying to make her go back to her sofa, was 
almost beside herself with distress and bewilderment. 

‘ What is the meaning of it all ? ’ she cried. ‘ Why 
do you keep me in the dark ? Tell me, Val ! tell me, 
Lollie ! The cheque was forged ; if Val did not forge 
it, who did ? It could not have been Charles I Was 
it youy Lollie ? * 

A ray of hope seemed to come to the unhappy 
woman through this chance suggestion. 

‘Yes, yes,’ she cried with feverish eagerness, clutch- 
ing at her sister’s arm, ‘that was it. I did it — I 
forged it. He has told you it was Charles ? It is 
not true, he had nothing to do with it — it was I — I 
alone. I wanted the money — tell everyone, Annie, 
tell everyone. It will be penal servitude, won’t it? 
Will they take me to prison? It doesn’t matter so 
much for a woman, does it ? and it was not Charles — 
not Charles — remember that ! * 

It was pitiful to see her, to listen to her gasping, 
incoherent words. Her eyes were wild and haggard, 
her poor weak frame tottered and shook. With 
difficulty they got her back to her sofa, almost 
lifting her on to it, but still she kept on muttering 
the same thing over and over again. ‘ Not Charles — 


298 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


not Charles ! ’ It was the one real and unselfish 
feeling of the poor woman’s heart. 

And it was at this terrible moment, and into this 
scene of distress and dismay, that Lady Catherine 
Deverell was suddenly ushered ! 

Whether it was the appearance of a fresh face in 
the room, or some delusion that her disordered brain 
called forth at the sight of it, it is difficult to say, 
but at Lady Catherine’s entrance Lollie sat half up 
on her sofa, and uttering one wild and piercing shriek, 
fell back again fainting upon her pillows. 

There followed ten minutes of the most indescrib- 
able confusion. The women unfastened her dress, 
flung water over her face, and held smelling-salts 
under her nose, whilst Val found some brandy and 
poured it down her throat. 

In a few minutes she revived, and opened her eyes. 
Her excitement had all passed away; perhaps she 
had forgotten it. She looked at them all quite quietly 
and composedly as though she knew them all, and 
spoke in a faint but perfectly rational voice. 

‘ I think I must be dying — I want to see Charles — 
I want to see him once more before I die — send for 
Charles.’ 

‘ He is outside the house now, in my brougham,’ 
whispered Lady Catherine to Val, whom in the con- 
fusion of the moment she had hardly had time to 
recognise and to identify. 

‘Go, then, and bring him in at once,’ whispered 
Val back. And Lady Catherine went. 


CHAPTER XXXI 


Laura Irvine was dead. The wretched, wasted 
life was at an end. Over all that was lovable, all 
that was pitiful, all that was sad and sinful in her, 
there had fallen that eternal silence out of which 
nothing ever speaks any more. Her many faults, 
her many sorrows, her great love and her great sel- 
fishness alike lay hidden in everlasting darkness, 
hushed for ever in the solemnity of the grave. 

Born to beauty, to love and happiness, poor Laura 
had soon fallen away from the brilliant promise of 
her early youth. Cruelly treated herself, she had in 
her turn worked incalculable harm to those amongst 
whom her life had been cast, and yet m.any a better 
woman has been less sincerely mourned and less un- 
feignedly missed than was Laura Irvine. 

There was something, perhaps, in the manner of 
her death, something in the impressiveness of that 
last scene, which made her for ever remembered, 
and remembered not unkindly, by all those who 
were present. 

For in her last moments poor Lollie did her utmost 
to make straight the tangled web of the lives of those 
who, for her sake and on her account, had suffered 
or gone astray. 


299 


300 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


It was several hours later, after Charles Irvine, 
shaken for once out of the callous cruelty of his 
evil nature, had been summoned into that fatal room, 
that Laura passed away out of this troublesome 
world for ever. 

There had been time for many things before she 
had drawn her last breath. 

Her fading eyes leapt again into a semblance of 
life at his entrance. She could not lift her head or 
move her hands, but those eyes and their burning 
love beckoned him to her. They saw, too, with a 
quick, jealous pang, how Charles looked first at 
Hermione before he even saw herself, and when he 
came close to her, she said, — 

* Don’t look at her. For this hour you are mine, 
mine only — my dearest ! * 

Charles would have been a worse man even than 
he was if he had not been moved. He knelt down 
by her side and took her wasted hand in his and 
kissed it, and over the poor woman’s face there passed 
a smile of ineffable happiness. 

‘ Val,’ she said, speaking quite distinctly, although 
very faintly, ‘Val, come here.’ Val obeyed her. 
Charles threw one startled, shuddering glance up 
into his face, then turned away his head with a groan. 
So Val was alive ! His worst fears were realised. 

‘ Shall I tell all the rest to go, Lollie ? ’ he asked, 
dreading what was to come before so many wit- 
nesses. 

* No, let them stay,’ she answered. ‘ They all know, 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


301 


Charles, that it was I who forged my father’s name 
upon the cheque.’ Charles started violently. 

* You / ’ he murmured vaguely. 

‘Yes, I have confessed it; they all know the truth 
now,’ she answered, calmly and firmly; perhaps in 
that last hour she even believed it. 

‘But, Val, there was a letter. Have you got it?* 

‘ I have it here,’ he answered. ‘ I have never parted 
with it for one instant since you gave it me,’ and he 
took it out of a small letter-case from his pocket. 

‘Val, I am going to die. You won’t refuse the 
dying request of your sister, will you? Your little 
Lollie you used to love so much, and were so proud 
of, you won’t refuse me, will you ? ’ 

Val’s eyes were full of tears. 

‘ I can refuse you nothing, dear,’ he answered 
gently. 

‘ Then give that letter to Charles ; it was a foolish, 
meaningless letter; no one has ever seen it but us 
three — you, and I, and he ; and presently there will 
be only two, you and he. Give it back to Charles 
and take his hand in yours and tell him that you 
forgive him.* 

There was a few moments of the most painful 
silence, for, not unnaturally, Val hesitated. To give 
away that letter was to part with the only proof of 
his innocence, for it contained, in Charles’s own hand- 
writing, an admission of his guilt. But forgiveness 
is God-given, and not of earth, and to forgive a man 
who has injured and supplanted one for years, who 


302 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


has taken one’s name, one’s place, one’s birthright, 
who has even done his best to take one’s deafest, 
too — ah ! that is hard ! too hard, perhaps, for mortal 
man ! 

Val held the letter tightly. He was white as ashes, 
white as the dying woman before him. He was a 
good man and an unselfish man ; he had sacrificed 
himself in past years in order to save his sister’s 
happiness and good name. But there are limits to 
human endurance, and to forgive the man who had 
wronged him and her to the point of giving up that 
letter was perhaps beyond him. 

Then Laura turned to Charles and spoke again. 

‘ And you, Charles, you must give back Goldsbury 
to my brother — it is his by right, you know. He 
will return you the letter, and you will give him back 
his own ; before I die I must set this great wrong 
right, or I shall not rest in my grave. Write it 
down.’ She beckoned faintly to Annie, who brought 
paper and a pen, and placed it in Charles’s hand. 
Charles looked helplessly around. He was caught 
in a trap. There was the letter in Val’s hands, and 
there was Val himself alive and well, and all about 
him there were witnesses to what was being said ; 
witnesses who could hear, and who could remember, 
and who were free to believe little or nothing of poor 
Lollie’s sclf-accusation. In fact, in the face of that 
letter, it would be of little use to deny the crime 
which in a moment of folly he had owned to in 
writing. 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


303 


As long as that letter was in Val’s hands, he must 
live with a drawn sword hanging over him ; but in 
order to gain possession of that letter, he must give 
back Goidsbury, and tacitly own himself defeated. 

There was no other alternative. 

‘ Write at my dictation, Charles,’ said Laura ; and 
with a white and desperate face, Charles dipped the 
pen that Val handed to him in the ink, and wrote, — 

* I, Charles Irvine, do hereby restore to Percival 
Irvine, my cousin, the house and estates of Goids- 
bury Towers in the County of Southshire, together 
with all effects, real and personal, and all moneys in 
the funds or otherwise invested, which were left to 
me by my late uncle, William Irvine : the said Per- 
cival Irvine having been erroneously thought to be 
dead, and being the only son and lawful heir of my 
late uncle. I do also hereby state and affirm, upon 
my oath, that the forgery committed eight years ago 
of my uncle’s name upon a cheque for three hundred 
pounds was not, as supposed at the time, committed 
by Percival Irvine, but by his sister Laura Irvine, of 
whose crime I have been cognisant all along, but 
have kept secret because I loved her and had pro- 
mised to marry her. 

‘(Signed) CHARLES IRVINE.’ 

‘ Read that aloud, Charles, that all who are present 
may hear the truth at last, and may understand the 
restitution you are about to make to my brother, then 


304 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


give it to Val, and he will give you that old letter in 
exchange for it.’ 

Amidst the most profound and impressive silence 
she was obeyed; Charles read aloud what he had just 
written ; he was very pale, his trembling hand could 
scarcely hold the paper, and his voice shook so much 
that tLe words were almost unintelligible. When he 
had finished, the others who were present, Annie, 
Lady Catherine and Hermione, signed it as witnesses, 
and the exchange was effected between the two 
cousins, the exchange which signified so much to 
them both. New life and an unblemished name to 
the one ; exile, obscurity and poverty to the other. 

Thus did poor Laura upon her deathbed make 
amends for the past, and effect this great work of a 
tardy justice to her much-injured brother, by taking 
upon herself the crime which she would not allow to 
be fixed upon its real author. 

And so she died — this one good action outweigh- 
ing, perhaps, by its intrinsic generosity, the failings 
and the faults of a whole lifetime. 

After this strange and curious scene was over, she 
hardly spoke again, but sank into a state of coma, 
from which she never recovered. The doctor came 
and pronounced her to be sinking fast. Lady 
Catherine took Hermione away with her in her 
carriage, and Charles Irvine, seeing that she no 
longer recognised him, or seemed conscious of his 
presence, thankfully escaped from the painful atmo- 
sphere of the chamber of death. 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


305 

Only the doctor and her brother and sister re- 
mained with her to the end. The doctor had at- 
tended her for some time and had known that she 
suffered from a fatal and perfectly hopeless internal 
malady, and he now briefly stated that any undue 
excitement or agitation would have been perfectly 
certain to bring her life to a very sudden close. 

‘We must be thankful that she has not suffered 
more,’ he said, when all was over. 

She passed away peacefully late in the afternoon, 
with only a gentle sigh to mark the moment when 
her soul escaped from a world where sorrow and 
trouble had followed her for most of the latter years 
of her life. 

In Annie, Lollie had at least one most sincere 
and broken-hearted mourner. For years Annie had 
watched over Lollie and nursed her more like a 
mother than a sister. Her devotion dated from the 
days when Lollie was a young and beautiful girl, and 
never to this devoted heart had age or illness been 
able wholly to impair the fair image which love had 
conjured up and kept alive through all the years of 
their life together. 

When all was over, and Lollie had been laid to rest 
by the side of their mother’s grave, Val took Annie 
away with him abroad. 

‘ Come with me,’ he had said to her ; ‘ your home 
dear sister, must always be with me.’ 

‘ But Miss Deverell,’ objected Annie. 

‘ Miss Deverel can wait,’ answered the young man, 
U 


3o6 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


with a happy smile; ‘she has already waited, she will 
not mind.- 

And so they two set off together, and found a 
peaceful summer home amongst the mountains of the 
Tyrol, where Val worked steadily at a new novel he 
was about, and where Annie sat by him busy at her 
needle, or with her pencil and paint-brush tried to set 
down the outlines of the mountains or to catch the 
fleeting colours that swept across their blue and 
purple slopes. And in this way, peacefully, quietly, 
and not unhappily, the brother and sister learnt to 
bridge over the chasm of the eight years of parting 
an 1 of misunderstanding, and grew to love each 
other more dearly and more entirely as week suc- 
ceeded week. 


CHAPTER XXXII 


The summer was nearly over. The leaves were 
turning to gold and the days were shortening. The 
first of September had come and gone, and the house 
was full of men for the partridge shooting. 

Richard Deverell had brought down several of his 
friends. They made a great deal of noise about the 
old house, and sat up late at night smoking and talk- 
ing, which vexed the just soul of Hunt, who could 
not abide late hours, and annoyed Sir Francis, who 
disliked the smell of stale tobacco when he came into 
his library in the morning. 

Sir Francis was growing very feeble. Every day 
he was less able to live his old life of activity and 
energy. The breaking off of Hermione’s engagement 
had been a sore disappointment to him, and he had 
never been quite able to understand why Charles 
Irvine had emigrated so suddenly to South America, 
and why Hermione had at the very last refused to 
marry him or go with him. 

Hermione bad never told the whole truth to her 
grandfather. She had told him what everybody had 
307 


3o8 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


heard now — that it was Laura, and not Percival, who 
had forged old Mr Irvine’s name, and that upon her 
deathbed Laura had confessed the truth. 

‘Well, I cannot see why you shouldn’t have married 
Charles for all that, even though he has been so 
generous as to restore Goldsbury to his cousin Val,’ 
said the old man, testily, to her. * Why didn’t you 
and Charles patch up your differences ? He needn’t 
have gone to America after all, for you wouldn’t 
have starved, you might both have lived here with 
me.’ 

‘You know, dear grandpapa, that I never really 
loved Charles, that was my real reason. I know now 
that I can only marry one man on earth.’ 

‘ What ? that wretched Green chap ? ’ 

Hermione laughed. 

‘Yes, the wretched Green I’ she replied, for she had 
never yet told her grandfather that Green was the 
same person as Val Irvine. 

‘ Hah ! ’ exclaimed the old gentleman, irritably, ‘ I 
didn’t believe a woman could be so obstinate as you 
are, Minnie! Can’t you give up that play-acting 
chap yet ? ’ 

‘ He isn’t a “ play actor,” he is an author now, he 
has written a novel.’ 

‘ Well, he won’t make much money at that game 
either 1 Who wants to read novels except Thack- 
eray’s and Sir Walter Scott’s ? I never heard of a 
modern novel fit for any sensible man to read,’ 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


309 


After that, Hermione surreptitiously laid Grey 
Dawn in his way, upon his writing-table, and she was 
delighted to discover, after a day or two, that he was 
reading it. Quite on the sly, of course ! He would 
take up the volume and dip into it, watching her out 
of the corner of his eye, and if he thought she was 
observing him, he would put it down very quietly 
again. Presently, however, the book disappeared for 
some time from the study table, and Hermione per- 
ceived with glee that he must have carried it up to 
his bedroom to read. One day she came in and 
caught him finishing the last chapter, and so absorbed 
was he in it, that he never looked up, nor perceived 
she was in the room till he had turned over the last 
page of the book, and found her standing laughing 
behind his chair. 

‘ Oh, you monkey ! ' he cried, throwing the volume 
down. ‘ What do you mean by watching me ? * 

‘Well?’ 

‘Well, what?’ 

‘ Tell me what you think of it ? honestly — mind ! 

‘ Well, it’s a good book of its kind,’ he admitted. 

‘ Ah, I knew you would like it ! ’ cried Hermione 
triumphantly. 

‘There must be some grit in the young man, I 
suppose,’ he added. 

‘ Of course there is, grandpapa.* 

‘ Hermione, my dear,’ after a little pause, * where is 
he now ? * 


310 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


‘ He is at the Hotel Weissenthal, in the Tyrol/ she 
answered promptly. 

‘ The deuce he is ! ’ cried Sir Francis, turning 
quickly round ; ‘ and how on earth do you know that, 
miss ? * 

^ Because I had a letter from him last week.* 

‘ Oh, indeed ? So he writes to you, does he ? * 

‘ Certainly he does. Twice a week.* 

Another pause. ‘ Are you going to marry the man, 
Minnie? ’ 

‘ I hope so, grandpapa.’ 

‘ I thought he wouldn’t have you — refused you I 
told you he didn’t want you ! ’ 

‘ Oh I ’ said Herrnione, laughing, ‘ that was all a 
mistake on my part, he didn’t mean it. We have 
made it up.’ 

Nothing more was said then ; but a few days later 
Sir Francis, who had evidently been turning things 
over in his mind, said to Herrnione, — 

‘ When is your young man coming home, 
Minnie ? ’ 

‘ My young man ? ’ 

‘This Green man— bah! what a horrible name! 
I shall never get used to it ! Kermione-^ Green / 
such bathos I it sounds hideous ! don’t you think 
yourself it does ? ’ 

‘ Very hideous 1 ’ assented Herrnione, laughing 
heartily, ‘but it’s not my name, grandpapa!’ 

‘ No, but I suppose it will be some day ! ’ 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


3IJ 

^ Oh, Fm not so sure of that ! ’ she answered 
merrily. 

‘ Well, I suppose you had better send for him, 
monkey! A nice fuss your uncle will make when 
he knows ! However, your uncle is going away next 
Tuesday, and so if you like to write to Mr Green and 
ask him to come and stay here after he is gone, you 
can do so.^ 

At this moment a note was brought to Hermione 
on a tray. * Waiting for an answer, miss,’ said the 
servant, as he handed it to her. 

Hermione hastily tore open the letter, and flushed 
a bright rosy red as she read it. 

‘ Say “ Yes,” ’ she said to the footman. He left the 
room immediately. 

‘ What is it, Hermione ? ’ 

‘Dear grandpapa,’ she replied, kneeling down by 
his arm-chair, and winding her arms coaxingly 
around his neck, ‘ I have a confession to make to 
you. Mr Green has arrived ; he is in England. He 
is going to live at a house near here, a house he has 
got in this neighbourhood.’ 

‘ Taken a house, has he ? Why, I thought he was 
a pauper ! ’ 

‘ You forget he has written a book.’ 

‘ Do books pay so well, then ? I didn’t know it I 
Well, he must be very fortunate to be able to take a 
house with the proceeds of one novel. Where is this 
house ? ’ 


312 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


‘ I want you to drive there with me to see him this 
afternoon ; he has just written to ask me to come. I 
can’t go alone, can I ? ’ 

‘ Certainly not, to a bachelor’s house. Well, I will 
go. I suppose between the two of you you will get 
me to consent to your engagement. Shall we take 
your aunt ? ’ 

‘ Oh, no, no ! let us go alone, just you and I.’ 

The victoria was accordingly ordered, and Her- 
mione and her grandfather set off together after 
lunch. 

‘ What is the name of the house ? where is it ? ’ he 
inquired ; but Hermione only laughed, and told him 
not to ask too many questions. 

‘ You will see when you get there ! ’ she said ; and 
then she gave her orders in a low voice to the coach- 
man. 

‘ It’s one of those new red-brick villas on the All- 
hampton road, I expect,’ he grumbled. ‘ Hideous, 
staring, vulgar abominations, with half an acre of 
bare garden round each of them ! Ugh ! how any 
girl in her senses can want to go and live in such 
a place I can’t think ! But there, I suppose love 
would make some of you girls go and live happily 
in a cucumber frame if you had set your heart 
on it.’ 

The old man was very easily tired nowadays, and 
driving always made him drowsy. Very soon his 
head fell nodding" forward on his chest, his eyes closed, 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


3^3 


and he dozed peacefully. Hermione had reckoned 
on this. 

After some time he jerked up his head, and opened 
his eyes. 

‘ Why ! we are driving in Goldsbury Park ! ’ he 
exclaimed in astonishment. ‘ Where on earth are 
you taking me ? * 

* I thought we would drive to Goldsbury first, to get 
the exact address ; the housekeeper, I believe, knows 
the name of Mr Green’s house.’ 

* I wonder when young Val Irvine is coming back, 
or if he ever is ! ’ mused Sir Francis. ‘ I should like 
to see the lad again for his poor father’s sake, though 
I don’t suppose I should remember him, it’s so long 
ago ; it’s an odd story, and a very strange thing that 
he should have come into his own again. Ah, well, 
poor Charles, he behaved nobly to him ; just what 
I should have expected from him — upright, honour- 
able chap that ; you did wrong to throw him over, 
Minnie.’ 

She made no answer, and presently the rumbling 
of the carriage wheels sent Sir Francis off to sleep 
again. 

Hermione sat as still as a mouse Her heart was 
beating violently. She was very happy. She and 
Percival had thought it right and wise to part for a 
time after poor Lollie’s death ; his own mourning for 
his sister must, in any case, have deferred their 
marriage, and he had believed it his duty to devote 


314 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


himself for a time to his elder sister, and to console 
her as much as possible in her sorrow. 

It had seemed prudent, too, that the news of his 
return and of his innocence should be allowed to get 
about gradually, and to impress itself fully upon the 
world’s comprehension before he himself came back 
to the house of his fathers, whence he had been so 
ignominiously banished. 

Neither did Val wish to be identified as * Percival 
Green,’ he desired that to be still his nom de plume ; 
but from all, save the few who would know him 
most intimately, he desired to bury the story of 
his past struggles in oblivion. Hermione entirely 
agreed with him, and so they had parted full of 
hope for the future, with love and patience for the 
present. 

Letters had, of course, been frequently exchanged 
between them ; and Annie, for one, knew that one 
day Sir Francis Deverell’s grandchild would be her 
sister-in-law. 

As the moment drew near when she was to see him 
?jgain, Hermione’s excitement rose. The victoria 
drew up before the front door, it was wide open, and 
across the hall the master of the house came forward 
v/ith rapid steps to greet them. 

The old man awoke with a start. 

‘ Why, where are we ? What is this ? Who, who 
is this ? ’ 

‘ Don’t you remember me, sir? ’ said Val, in such a 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


315 


bright, cheery voice, that even Hermione was as- 
tonished at the change in him. 

She had sprung quickly out of the low carriage, 
whilst Val began to assist Sir Francis to get out. 

‘ Why ! bless my soul ! ’ ejaculated the old man, 
‘ are yon not Val Irvine ? ’ 

‘The same, sir, at your service, and delighted to 
welcome you to Goldsbury.’ 

Sir Francis shook hands heartily with the son of 
his old friend. 

‘ I must congratulate you most sincerely, my dear 
young friend, upon your return, and upon your re- 
storation to your proper position ; of course I was 
fond of your Cousin Charles, too, but still it is right 
that you should have back what you only lost through 
a most unhappy mistake. Ah ! I wish your poor 
father were here.’ 

‘And so do I, sir ; but come in. Annie is waiting 
to greet you. Here she is I ’ 

Annie came quickly out of the drawing-room, and 
after shaking Sir Francis warmly by the hand, she 
threw her arms affectionately round Hermione’s 
neck. 

‘ My dear, dear Hermione ! ’ she said, with tears 
in her eyes, ‘ you must let me kiss you, for I intend 
to love you very much.’ 

‘ Hush ! ’ said Hermione, putting her finger to her 
lips,* and glancing at her grandfather, ‘he knows 
nothing yet.’ 


3i6 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


Sir Francis was talking to Val. The servants 
brought in tea, and presently they all sat down round 
the little table. Val and Hermione had hardly 
spoken to each other, but their happy glances met, 
and the purest joy shone in their faces. 

When they had finished tea, Sir Francis got up 
suddenly. 

‘ Come, my dear, we must be getting on,’ he said to 
his grand-daughter ; ‘ have you found out the name of 
the house? We are going,’ he added, turning to his 
young host, ‘ to call upon a celebrated author, a 
certain Mr Percival Green, who has lately come to 
live near here. We must be going on.’ 

‘ I don’t think you need go, sir,’ said Val, laughing. 
And then Hermione rose from her . place, and went 
softly round to where Val was standing, and winding 
her arm through his, she laid her pretty fair head 
fondly down upon his shoulder. 

* This is Mr Percival Green, grandpapa ! ’ she said 
quietly. 

Sir Francis remained open-mouthed, staring speech- 
lessly at them both. They were smiling at him. 
Val bent his cheek down against the golden head, 
and drew the slender young figure tenderly into his 
arms. Annie Irvine in the background furtively 
wiped away some tears of joy from her eyes. The 
old man looked bewilderedly from one to the other. 

‘Val Irvine, Percival Green! the same man, then, 
all the time ? ’ 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


317 


‘Yes, all the time, sir!’ said Val, laughing; ‘only 
that Hermione has only found it out quite lately.’ 

‘ God bless my soul I ’ ejaculated Sir Francis at 
last ; then after a pause he added, ‘ I suppose I must 
be an old fool not to have guessed it long ago.’ 

They were married before the month was out. It 
was a very quiet wedding, but everyone who was 
chiefly concerned in it was present. 

They had loved, and waited, and despaired so long, 
that there seemed no reason for deferring their happi- 
ness any longer than was absolutely necessary. 

And Sir Francis was growing old, and he was in 
haste to see his child married and settled near him. 

So one morning, late in autumn, when the sun was 
shining brightly upon the red and gold of the yellow 
woods, and when the early dews were yet wet upon 
the grass, the little wedding party assembled, without 
much fuss or ceremony, in the village church outside 
the gates of Deverell Park. 

Mr Deverell, somewhat disgusted, but dissembling 
his ungraciousness as best he could beneath smiles 
and polite words; Lady Catherine, unfeignedly pleased 
and sympathetic; and Annie, tearful, but deeply 
thankful for her brother’s happiness, were the only 
guests, but the church was filled with Sir Francis’s 
poor neighbours and tenants, and the school children 
lined the churchyard path with baskets of cottage 
flowers to throw beneath the bride’s feet as she 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


318 

passed by upon her grandfather’s arm. And many 
were the fervent blessings and heartfelt good wishes 
that greeted Mr and Mrs Percival Irvine as they came 
out of the rustic porch together, to the familiar but 
always beautiful strains of the wedding march. 

Their honeymoon lasted but a brief fortnight, for 
Hermione did not care to leave her grandfather alone 
longer, and it was spent upon the Cornish Coast ; but 
on the whole they were glad to get home, for Val had 
been an exile so long, that to settle down in the home 
of his boyhood was the greatest of all delights to 
him. Annie was to live with them for the rest of her 
days; both Val and Hermione insisted upon that, for 
both felt that she had suffered so deeply through the 
sin that had banished her from Goldsbury, that it was 
due to her that the rest of her life should be spent 
there ; and the house was large, and there was room 
for them all in it. 

As for Charles, for several years nothing was heard 
of him at home, but at last one day, when Val was 
up in London, he happened to come across his old 
acquaintance, Mr d’Aubigny, who told him that he 
had heard a rumour that Charles had been killed by 
a fall from his horse in South America. 

He instituted inquiries, and after a time confirma- 
tion of this news came home. It was indeed true. 
He had been rkling a raw, half-trained animal he 
had purchased up country, the creature had shied 
suddenly at some passing waggons, and Charles was 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


319 


flung off, and his head striking with violence against 
some rocky ground by the roadside, he had been 
killed on the spot. 

The news was received with deep emotion by 
Hermione. Charles had played too iftiportant a 
part in the history of her life for her to be indifferent 
to his sad fate, and she was much shocked and upset 
to hear of his sudden end. 

But they never told Sir Francis. To the end of 
his life the old man never ceased to believe that 
Charles was a fine fellow. Val, no doubt, was the 
best, he would say, but if Minnie had cared about 
Charles, and had married him, she would not have 
done so badly ! And so they never told him of his 
violent death — that trouble at least was spared him. 
Sir Francis always believed that Charles would 
come home some day, perhaps with a fortune made 
in America, and settle down amongst his old friends 
in Southshire. 

‘Why destroy his illusions Hermione would say, 
with her tender smile. ‘ One has so few in this world, 
that if one can keep them till one is old, as my dear 
grandfather has done, it would only be a cruel thing 
to shake his faith.’ 

She had a little Percival of her own upon her lap 
as she spoke, and in due time there came another 
tiny being to bless the happy household — a girl this 
one, who, by Annie’s fervent and special request, was 
christened ‘ Laura,’ in tender memory of one who had 


320 


A DIFFICULT MATTER 


suffered and sinned much, but who, in her last hour 
had made what reparation she could for the harm 
she had worked on earth. 

Sir Francis still drives frequently over to Golds- 
bury to see his grandchildren and great-grandchildren, 
whilst Hermione never misses a single day in her 
loving visits to the old man who took her to his home 
and his heart in the days when she was a poor and 
friendless orphan, alone in the world. 


THE END 







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